


Goodbye

by Willowsticks



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 79,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowsticks/pseuds/Willowsticks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard is posted back to the UK...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M from the beginning but not all the way through...so again, if you like to read on the bus, its probably best to leave this chapter until you get home...

Richard Poole watched as Saint Marie disappeared in a rush of colour beneath him. As the brief flash of green gave way to azure blue he sat back in his seat and realised with a rise of emotion that he was finally going home. To rain, to the chill of wind, to the comforting grey of fellow commuters and food that didn’t try and burn through his oesophagus. His excitement was palpable. 

But the rush fell quickly away to sadness. He was also leaving for anonymity, for loneliness, for hard work with no respite, and for no gleaming smile that met him first thing in the morning. That last one seemed particularly difficult to stomach and he felt a sickness he had not felt in a long time rear its ugly head from deep within him. 

Regret? Yes, regret was there too but it didn’t take the form that he thought it would. 

His thoughts turned to the flight ahead and the exhaustion he would surely feel on landing. He wondered briefly if he had been stupid taking the red eye back to London, if he should have given himself more time to prepare for his first day in the office rather than arriving there straight from the airport. 

On quick reflection he thought it was one of the best decisions he’d ever made. 

*** 

His notice of transfer weeks earlier had been neither sought nor wanted. His boxes were packed, the shack locked and his goodbyes said. He was driving to the airport, never to return; the last time that he would feel his shirt pressed wetly and uncomfortably against his back. Camille had finally run out of small talk and the silence in the car blanketed them like the heat. It lay, stifling, heavy and oppressive. Richard mulled over his own thoughts, his leaving drinks, where his team had gamely tried to get him drunk (and almost succeeded), his luggage, his flight, anything to keep his mind off the woman sitting next to him. By his reckoning he only had a few minutes left before she’d never torture him with silence again. 

A speed bump brought him back to his senses as he realised that they had pulled up in the almost empty car park of the airport rather than the more popular drop off zone. Confused, he registered that the engine had been cut off. He looked around, taking in his surroundings, a sparse scattering of cars littered the empty bays, he allowed his pedantic nature to kick in, briefly mentally arranging them by colour coordination before turning to the woman next to him. 

“Is the drop off zone full, Camille?” 

Her hands held fast to the steering wheel and she was staring resolutely ahead. To Richard it seemed as though she might be trying not to cry, but there was too much hair over her face for him to be really sure. And anyway, it didn’t really seem like something Camille would do. She’d been teasing him for the past month about his return to London, making it perfectly clear that he’d no longer be her problem anymore; that he’d have to pick on a new DS; how he could forget all about them. 

And he’d sat there, every smile she sent his way causing a dagger like blow to shudder unbidden through his heart, cementing the fact that he would miss her far more than he himself would be missed. 

In the silence his ears now picked up on the fact that her breathing was becoming steady again (had it ever been shallow?), almost as if she was exercising a tight command of her emotions. He wondered idly if she was angry with him for not talking on the way to the airport, perhaps she had thought him rude. It would be the last time they were together after all. 

He blinked hard as tried not to think about them being together in any capacity. Increasingly it had led to unfulfilled dreams both nocturnal and otherwise, over which he apparently had no control. Certain fantasies had obviously encompassed the schoolboy needs that still existed in him, but he had also increasingly found himself waking from delicious dreams where his subconscious had done nothing more than allow them to swim in the sea together.

*** 

While Richard was lost in his musings, Camille was inwardly debating how give a voice to hers. She didn’t want to embarrass him, but then wondered why the hell she was bothering. He was nearly gone and she would never see him again. What did it matter? She took another deep breath and let her insecurities tumble out. 

Her voice, thick with control, was purposely low and steady, the last thing she wanted was to cry in front of him. “Did you ever like me?”

She was unable to look at him making it easier for him to study her, to try and work out where she was going with this. 

“Like you? Yes of course I did. I mean I do. I do like you. Very much.” The last statement was almost inaudible. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I’ve done something to upset you. I thought we were friends...” 

“We are. I just. I just wanted...” She paused to collect her thoughts again. “Why did you never ask me? You must have known I would have said yes.”

“Said yes to what?” It was a question he wasn’t quite sure he wanted the answer to. 

“I don’t know really. A drink, dinner if you wanted it.” She shook her head forlornly and finally looked at him. “I thought, after Erzuli that you might have asked.” 

He ran a hand over his face. He was finding out too late that this beautiful, funny, wonderful woman had wanted him and that he had been too cowardly to do anything about it. He struggled to find the right way to explain his actions to her. “But we always argued, Camille. I thought...” He tailed off, unable to finish the sentence that sounded the death knell on their relationship. He’d never known a silence to be so deafening, his fingers automatically found his collar and tried to loosen his tie as if that would still the effect of drowning that he now felt. Very slowly he reached out and tentatively touched her hand with his fingertips noting the warmth and silk of her skin for the first time.  
He had been about to apologise but for the moment he was caught up in wondering what the rest of her might have felt like if he had been a little bolder. He realised that he was still holding on to her and it pulled him back to reality. 

“I’m sorry.” 

She was trying to mask the pain on her face, but in that moment he knew that he had lost something he hadn’t even known he’d wanted that badly. He’d assumed that he had been attracted to her because she was beautiful, that he’d wanted her as every other man had wanted her, and he had pushed her away, fearing that he might have perceived her as a conquest. He realised his mistake as she flexed her hand dislodging his in the process. He felt the loss of her skin against his keenly. Nodding and trying to straighten her back as much as she could in her seat, she tried to tell him that it didn’t matter anymore, that it didn’t do to dwell on something that could never be. 

“We should get a move on, I know you don’t like to be rushed. Do you want me to drive you closer?”

Mute, in case his voice belied the emotions now coursing through him, he shook his head and got out of the car taking his case from the back seat. Turning around he found that Camille was standing in front of him. 

Awkwardness hung between them until she eventually reached out her arms and drew him to her briefly, placing the lightest of kisses on his cheek. Richard absorbed each and every feeling she elicited in him and created a memory of her, the only true one he would have. The way she smelt, the way her lips felt, the slight wetness around her eyes that he still couldn’t believe was for him. It was all too much. 

She stood back, numbed by the pain of lost chances while Richard’s eyes bore into hers. There was nothing to say. There would never be anything to say. She wished one last time for him to fight for her when suddenly he dropped his bag, closed the gap between them and kissed her, his hands gently cupping her face. 

It was the perfect goodbye kiss. Long and sweet and tender and heartbreaking. He pulled back. “I’m sorry. I just...wanted to know what it would have been like. 

She stood blinking at him as he finished with an almost inaudible. “I hope you’ll be happy.” 

Squaring his shoulders, he heard the car door behind him, echoing in the empty car park and came to the conclusion that she was on her way. That she hadn’t even bothered to watch his sorry return to the UK. 

“Richard, wait.” He turned around to see her apprehensive face. “Change your flight.” He looked dumbstruck. “Change your flight, stay with me.”

He was struggling to find the right words, to try and explain to her the million reasons why he shouldn’t do that. But she was in his arms again, crying and kissing him and his heart was breaking. 

“Please stay. Just for the weekend. Stay for us. Then at least we’ll know. We’ll have more than this.”

It was flawed logic, but he was sorely tempted. He knew that if he stayed, it would be perfect. Even if it was awful then it would be perfect. It had to be because it was Camille. And then in two days he would still be on a flight and this goodbye would be a thousand times worse. 

Her voice cut through his thoughts. “Richard, please.” Her thumb was caressing his face, forcing his eyes to find hers, her fingers curling and clutching round to the hair at the nape of his neck, and he crumbled, nodding his ascent as he kissed her again, manoeuvring them both back towards the car. 

Pressing her up against the door Camille was overwhelmed by the voraciousness of his passion, his hot breath, his tongue, his mouth, dancing over her lips and her skin, lighting her nerve endings on fire where he passed. 

He stopped and rested his head against the hot metalwork of the car before practically growling at her to get in the car.

She did as she was told and pulled herself into the driver’s seat, still in a daze. She looked over at him and he was already on the phone. 

“Its Detective Inspector Poole, I need to change my flight...no it can’t wait, my flight leaves in two hours...no I won’t hold...” She giggled as he balled his fists in frustration. He had clearly been put on hold. “Hello?...Yes I need to change my flight...” There was a quick exchange between them as he spun a perfect lie that revolved around his inability to leave whilst in the middle of an investigation which resulted in him saying “Sunday?” He flashed a look at Camille, he didn’t want to push his luck if she only wanted him for one night. She nodded enthusiastically. “Sunday’s fine, 6pm.” His voice raised an octave briefly as her hand found his thigh. He cleared his throat and continued. ”Can you email me?...Yes that’s right. Thank you.” 

He hung up the phone and looked up to find her smiling at the road, then glanced at the speedometer. She was definitely speeding. She noticed his line of vision.

“I’m not going to slow down.” 

“I didn’t ask you to.” 

Her smile broadened. “Aren’t you even going to ask me to put both hands on the wheel?”

He looked as though he was seriously considering it until her fingers tensed a little bringing his attention back to the hand she was resting on his thigh. He watched as her thumb nervously danced a light pattern against his leg, enjoying her caress and warmth of her through the material of his trousers before she removed it to change gear. She didn’t replace it, and although Richard missed the contact he decided that in this instance he was happy to have her concentration back on the road. 

Pulling into her drive they now face a new challenge; Richard’s earlier ardour had been dampened somewhat by the fact that her hand had not been replaced on his thigh. In the ensuing silence as he was contemplating whether his change of flight had been the right thing to do, she seemed to realise that his hesitancy and lack of confidence did not signal a lack of interest. Leaning forward, she kissed him lightly, gently trying to reassert his earlier mood and hint that in the very least they should get out of the car and talk. But eager to start where they had left off in the car park, his kiss was decidedly more enthusiastic. 

As she climbed into his lap, he began to wonder if there was a quick release button to recline his seat when he saw her reaching for the door, holding his hand as she practically barrel rolled onto the ground and pulling him to her front door. He remembered pinning her up against the wall in her hall while he shed his jacket and she took care of his shirt buttons and his tie. But the rest of Richard’s memory of how they got to bed was hazy. All he remembered was her lips, her hands, the weight of her and the trail of clothing that they left in her hall as he carried her towards her bedroom. 

***

Her hand cupped Richard’s face as he curled around her, caressing the beginnings of his stubble. She imagined them like iron filings pressing up towards her moving hand like an undulating wave and a smile touched her lips at the thought that her control over his body might extend to the unnatural as well as the functional. Her hand continued as she recounted their evening together thus far. Their initial love making had been every bit as passionate as she had expected it to be given their arguments, but if she was honest then she would have admitted to herself that there might have been something missing, that they had worked together purely on the basis of that passion alone and that their technique might have been lacking. 

But that had been their first time. 

For their second time he had seemed to realise this too and had broken away from their kiss to take her hand in his and move it downwards towards the apex of her thighs. She had initially been unsure of what he wanted from her, her hand had remained resolutely under his, shielding herself from him, his own personal Venus de Milo laid out before him in her naivety. 

But her innocence was short lived as she realised that he was nervous, his eyes belying his previous show of confidence and his voice when he found it was a whisper, his dry mouth causing the words to fall from him, uncertain and unsteady as he asked her to teach him. She knew then what he wanted and her uncertainties evaporated with her understanding. If anything told her that the weekend wasn’t just a weekend that he wanted more, then it was this. 

His eyes flicked between studying the rhythmic motion of her hand; the pressure, the speed; to her face. The way it tilted first to the ceiling and then towards him; her body in fluid motion; her eyes fluctuating between shutting and staring. He watched her excitement bloom and just before she reached her peak his hand returned to hers helping her towards her release. When at last it came, he moved to make love to her again, riding it out until he felt her still beneath him, too tired to move anymore and he rolled away, curling himself around her. Ironically it was Richard who had fallen asleep first, arm splayed haphazardly across her. 

He shifted from his doze next to her, shaking his head in a move designed to get her to stop the constant attention to his face that had now become annoying. She stopped instantly, wiling him back to sleep, settling herself next to him, her heart sinking as she thought of how little time they had left. 

***

Richard had been aware that his first attempt at making love to Camille had been frantic, torrid and blissful. A quick fix for feelings that had been repressed for too long. He remembered the heat that enveloped him, the roll of her hips into his, the feel of her hands on his shoulder blades, his back, his backside and the way her pupils dilated before she cried out and stilled as he collapsed on top of her. 

But he also knew that the euphoric nature of their first time together could never be repeated (although he hoped there would still be passion) and that behind it lay an un-enticing myriad of do’s and don’ts. He only hoped he could live up to her expectations. He didn’t want to be a joke that she laughed about with her friends after his departure on Sunday. 

He had never been the most impulsive of men but in that moment he knew that if he was leaving then he wanted Camille to remember him as someone who actually gave a damn, someone who was better than the others. He moved forward and kissed her again, hoping that his body would be able to support his renewed vigour. 

It had. He remembered the feeling of frustrated patience as he watched her, noting every flush, every movement, every change in tempo she made, memorising it for the future, even if there was no future, ensuring that she could never lie to him about this.

With a jolt, he opened his eyes and found himself back on the plane surrounded by strangers, his memories fading quickly with the embarrassment of being in public. There was a slight buzz in the air caused by the pressure, the muted light from overhead bulbs as people read and the hum of conversations that nobody wanted overheard. Among the hushed footfalls of the cabin crew as they silently stalked the cramped aisles he realised that nothing seemed real anymore. He surreptitiously studied those closest to him to see if he had given his thoughts away, a slight flush creeping over his collar. To those that were still awake he was invisible, just as he had always been. 

He closed his eyes again and allowed himself to drift back to the woman he had left behind. He’d had 48 perfect hours. Waking on Saturday morning had been everything that he could have wished for and more. He had shown her in every way how much she meant to him, what he could do for her. His flushed deepened as he recalled her very enthusiastic response. 

But he had also been right in thinking that leaving the second time had been harder. Much harder. She had insisted on driving him to the airport again. Partly because he wouldn’t have been able to call a taxi without causing gossip but mostly because it had meant that she’d had a few extra precious minutes with him. Their goodbye in the car park that final time had been noisy but for entirely different reasons as Camille tried desperately to stop sobbing on his shoulder. 

He ran his mind’s eye back over her, memorising everything he had learnt about her body over the weekend. A lover’s knowledge. The small mole on the back of her thigh, the pronounced arch of her foot, the strength of her, the feel of the back of her nails against his skin as she trailed her hands across his chest. She flashed before his eyes and he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake by not committing to her fully, by not going back. 

He wished that there had been something that he could have said to comfort her, but there was nothing. He was leaving. They had studiously ignored any topic of conversation that had related to the future, Richard had known everything he had needed to from their first kiss. But what was the point in telling her that he was in love? They now lived in different countries and he would probably have a found a way to muck up their relationship within a couple of weeks anyway. 

It was better left this way.


	2. Settling In

For the first week that he was back, she had haunted him.  Everything reminded him of her.  Even things that didn’t remind him of her reminded him of her.  The comfort of the drizzle reminded him of her because he knew that she wouldn’t like it.  The ordinariness of the plain clothes police officers reminded him of her because he knew that her bright clothing would have made her stick out like a sore thumb.  The respect his colleagues afforded him because of his job title reminded him of her because he knew she would never have been so deferential.    

He held out until the end of the week before he could bear it no longer.  Waking on Saturday, the first of his days off, without the rush of work to prepare for, he felt truly alone for the first time since his return.  He lay back and imagined her warmth against him, her tangle of hair and her breath tickling his skin.  He felt the beginnings of lust stir within him and without thinking reached for his phone dialling her number.  It rang once before he realised the time difference and quickly cut the line. His mistake had cost him his arousal.  Resigning himself to a day on his own, unpacking his boxes from storage he was half out of bed when his phone sprung to life, the tone shrieking at him like a banshee.  Four rings.  Five rings.  He debated whether to let it go to answer phone.  Six rings.  He picked up but didn’t trust himself to speak. 

“Hello?”  Her voice, he hadn’t quite realised until now just how much he had missed her voice.  It was thick with sleep.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Silence.  He could imagine her frantically blinking her eyes, trying to wake up.

“I’m sorry, I forgot about the time difference.  Did I wake you?”

“I don’t mind.”  He could hear the sleepy smile in her voice and his heart soared. 

“Camille, its 4 in the morning... 

“Well then, this had better be important or I’m going to get angry.”  How was it possible that he had missed her teasing? 

There was another uncomfortable moment of silence as Richard tried to decide what to say.  He heard a sigh.  “You know Richard when you leave a woman sobbing at the airport you don’t have to wait 5 days to let her know that you’ve landed safely.  Not unless you’re trying to tell her something.”

“I know I’m sorry.  I, um, I got caught up with work.”

She felt an ominous weight in her stomach at his excuse, suddenly realising that this wasn’t going to be the romantic late night conversation that she had been hoping for.  She tried fishing for a compliment, hoping to ease the truth out of him. 

“I thought you might have been avoiding me...”

He didn’t answer.  He wasn’t sure if he had been avoiding her.  The exquisite pain of hearing her voice, the vivid memories, he had needed to forget a little.  

Her heart sank and her voice tightened.  “You’re not embarrassed about what happened between us are you?”  

In the space of 30 seconds they had stumbled into dangerous territory. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted anymore, or rather, he knew exactly what he wanted, but also what he couldn’t have.  He should never have called her.

“No!”

“So you don’t regret it?" 

He was indignant now.  “Of course not!”

“So why didn’t you call?  And please don’t hide behind work again because if you like someone then you make time to talk to them.  Unless you’re trying to avoid me for some reason?”  She had a thought, a horrible thought that she didn’t really want to give countenance to.  But she had to.  “Unless....it didn’t mean anything.  Is that why you haven’t called?”

“No, that’s not...”  He was hurt that she could think that it might just have been about that.  That she didn’t know him better.  He wanted to tell her that he felt lonely without her, that he would have done anything to have rewound the last week and woken up with her in his arms again.  But his mouth dried up and his courage failed him.  

There apparently was no avoiding this.  Again, he silently cursed the fact that he had rung her and words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop himself. 

“I just wanted to talk to you.”  It was the nearest approximation to what he actually wanted to say without giving himself away. 

 “About what?  About how you haven’t called for a week?” She misread his loneliness for the beginning of a break up conversation and inadvertently triggered it. 

He sighed.  “This is why I didn’t call.  Because of this, because we argue.  I just think that we need to be careful, we’re in danger of living in a fantasy because we’re 6,000 miles apart and...”

“So, you think I need to grow up,” she searched for the word, “get real?”  The imagined slight and her freshly revealed insecurities combined forcefully as the need to protect herself became overpowering.

“That’s not what I said Camille.”

She fell back to sarcasm and attack as the best form of defence. “Because I’m a child living in a fantasy land, daring to dream that one day my knight in silver armour will come and pick me up and take me away from my horrible job and my horrible friends.”   

“Shining.”

“What?”

“Shining armour.” He realised too late that his correction wouldn’t do anything to calm her down.  “Never mind.”

“So now I can’t speak English properly either?”

“That’s not what I meant.  Camille, it’s 4 in the morning.  Perhaps...”

“Perhaps I misunderstood you because I’m not fully awake.  Or perhaps I misunderstood you because I can’t speak English properly.  It’s my fault again.”  Somewhere, in her conscience she knew he was right.  It was very early in the morning and her brain perhaps wasn’t at its most functional.  It only made her more stubborn.  “You know Richard.  At least I try.  You spent 2 years with us and you didn’t even bother to try and learn French.  You never bother with anything.  You didn’t even bother to call to see if I was ok after you got back.  It’s pathetic.”

She hung up and he was left holding his phone bemusedly wondering what he had done wrong this time.  All he had tried to do was explain himself to her.  He rang her back and got her voicemail.  “Come on Camille, let’s not be childish about this...”  He took a deep breath and then continued.  She should at least know how he felt.  He owed her that much. 

His phone rang back 5 minutes later and he could feel her anger roll down the phone at him in waves even before she unleashed her barrage of abuse. 

“I’m childish?  You think I’m childish?  You are the most emotionally repressed man I’ve ever met, you can’t communicate with anyone on an adult level...  Instead you are arrogant and pompous and rude and, and...”  She scrabbled around for other adjectives to describe him, “anally retentive.” 

“Camille, I’m not...none of those things make me childish, did you even listen to my whole...”  He was confused, wrong footed by the intensity of her rage aimed directly at him when all he had done was leave a voice mail.

“Oh no, because heaven forbid you be childish Richard.  That you have fun or laugh or enjoy yourself.  Because then people might actually think you have a sense of humour and want to spend time with you. 

“Your world is cold and ordered and boring.  You are boring Richard because you don’t ever let anything happen to you.   You’re even fighting the possibility of us being together because you don’t want anything to upset your perfect little world.”

He was collapsing under such a personal attack.  It was clear to him from her last sentence that she had heard his message and she still didn’t understand.  He managed to stammer out a resistance imploring her to stop.  It went unheeded.

“You never think of anyone else!  Do you know what I’ve been doing for the past week?  Or feeling?  Do you even care?  Or have you just been thinking of yourself, how last weekend affected you, or perhaps you just patted yourself on the back because you managed to squeeze in a holiday romance before you left and now you never have to see me again.

“You want to know why you’re alone Richard?  You are alone because you want to be alone.  You have no passion, no soul.  You don’t care about anyone except yourself because you’ve never wanted to let anyone in.  And I tried.  I tried so hard with you, even when everyone told me not to bother, because I wanted to get to know the real you.  But you know what?  It turns out that the real you isn’t very nice.

She paused, waiting for a retort.  She was met with silence but rather than feeling triumph she felt guilt. 

He swallowed, trying to rid his voice of unwanted emotion threatening to engulf him, when he spoke his voice was full of bitterness.  “Well I’m sorry that your social experiment was such a waste of your time.  I can only hope that you have better luck with the next defenceless Englishman who crosses your path.”

“Richard, I didn’t mean...”

“I have to go Camille.  I have to get on...”  He almost finished it with ‘my life’ but that felt too final, and he couldn’t bring himself to say it, to signal the end, even if that was what she wanted.

The line rang dead in her ear as she threw the phone across the room in frustration and annoyance.

She sat up in bed, resting her head against the headboard, fully awake and furious that she’d allowed him to get under her skin again.  A week.  A whole week and apparently they were back to square one.  She tried to lie down, tossing and turning waiting for sleep that was now totally out of reach replaying their conversation over and over again, her initial excitement to hear from him followed by her hurt and anger.

At every replay though her determination to hear a slight in his words grew less and less until she found herself scrabbling on the floor in the pale light of dawn looking for her phone.  With a feeling of dread she dialled her voicemail and breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the word childish again, vindicated that she hadn’t imagined it.

She had been right. 

_“Come on Camille, let’s not be childish about this..._

But in her pursuit for the truth she had remained on the line long enough to hear his sigh as he collected his thoughts and haltingly began to speak again. 

_“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean that, it doesn’t really reflect what I’m trying to say, but I can’t really ever think properly when I’m talking to you. And I’m sorry that you think I don’t care.  I do.  I really do._

_“Work has been...exhausting and I can’t stop thinking about you.  I know you think that I’m using it as an excuse but I’m not, there’s so much to learn and to organise.  I just... I just...”_ He took another deep breath and she could almost hear his dejection. 

_“I woke up this morning and for the first time I was able to think about us without everything else getting in the way and I...I just wanted to hear your voice.  But you’re right, I could have called sooner and I didn’t because I’m scared and I just think that we need to take a step back and really think about what we want.  And I’m not presuming to know what you want, God - you probably don’t even want the same thing that I do, but if...on the small off chance that you do, then we need to talk about this properly because I want to try.  I want us to work so badly but I’m not sure if I can start something that’s not going anywhere Camille because... I’m not sure I’d get over it as easily as you might._

_I’m not explaining myself very well.  Um...maybe just think about what you want, sleep on it and call me when we can both talk properly._

She listened to his message in full for the first time, and then began to cry. 


	3. Back on Track

As Richard stumbled through the door a wave of nausea and self loathing overwhelmed him. He had spent the last two hours in the company of friends who had extolled the virtues of their latest single girlfriend. With a sigh he realised that it was only ever couples who he met up with now and even those were few and far between.

This one had been no different, organised under the obligation of a friendship forged long ago and almost burnt out under the passage of time. He had no idea why Andrew had had to bring his bloody wife with him. She had changed the atmosphere completely and instead of a quiet drink to catch up he had been subjected to two hours of match making alongside a complete decimation of his character. He couldn’t fathom why married men were no longer masters of their own social calendars. But then again he also couldn’t understand why he (if he’d listened to the harridan) would be a better catch if he was divorced rather than a bachelor.

Perhaps if he had been divorced it would have shown women that he had at least tried, been willing to make a go of it with someone, that he wasn’t too hideous for someone to have made a go of it with him. But he was single, and perennially so. He was reminded, not for the first time of how his non-existent relationship with Camille had ended. Her voice echoing in his ears about him not trying.

He wasn’t sure if he was sober enough to resist calling her tonight. He wasn’t sure if he cared either.

It had been two weeks since that phone call. He had been back for longer than he cared to recollect and her absence by his side, both physically and by way of support was almost too much for him to bear. He had thought that he would have been over this by now. That the weight of his workload would have crushed it out of him. But the silence he came home to every night was a constant reminder of how much he missed her, how much he needed to hear her voice even if they did end up arguing. Surely the pain of her words were better than no words at all?

With a sudden rush of consciousness he looked down to see his phone in his hand and realised that after the evening he had just had he actually wanted to text her. For comfort. For old times sake. He wanted to be friends with her. He’d always wanted that.

Without thinking he typed out a bland message.

_Hows the new DI settling in?_

The reply was gratifyingly instant.

_Fine. We miss the old one though._

_We._ Well that was that then. She was over it. The pain he felt was immeasurable, the need to take a bath with a toaster suddenly appealing.

Another text.

_I miss the old one._

He texted back without thinking.

_I miss the old one too._

He pressed send then looked at the message. Shit. It didn’t even make any sense. And knowing Camille she would probably think that he was calling her old.

His phone rang. He picked it up, apologising instantly.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Are you drunk Richard?”

“A little. Actually probably more than a little.” He remembered more than a couple of drinks as he’d listened to Andrew’s wife (damn he couldn’t even remember her name) harp on about something or other as he tried to drown her out through alcohol.

He could hear her smiling down the phone at him. “Have you had a good evening then?”

“No it was decidedly awful.” Her smile turned into a laugh. “Camille, why don’t women let men go out on their own once they’re married?” Her laughter stopped as she realised that his loneliness spoke volumes behind his innocuous question.

“You’re asking me like I know the answer. I’m not married either, remember?”

“But, if you were married. Would you insist on going everywhere your husband went?”

“No.” He thought that her voice sounded wistful, possibly a little hopeful. But he was drunk.

“They don’t do it when they’re just girlfriends, only when they’re married. I don’t understand. Do all men suddenly become untrustworthy?”

“Can I infer then a friend decided to bring his wife with him this evening?”

She heard him groan. “It was awful. She wouldn’t shut up about this friend of hers she wanted to set me up with. Hideous.”

“How do you know she’s hideous?”

“Oh I don’t, the whole concept’s hideous.” Then as an afterthought. “I hate blind dates.”

There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone while Camille remembered him almost saying as much and digested the news that Richard wasn’t interested in meeting up with anyone else. He seemed to think that she was bored.

“Sorry. I’m being morose.” He was wandering around the house in his socks, absentmindedly skating on the kitchen tiles like a naughty school boy. The alcohol ensured the loss of his inhibitions. He stopped in front of the fridge and opened it to survey the contents of his bachelor lifestyle. The artificial light cast a small spot light on him, the star role in his own singular existence. It made him feel slightly reckless. He took a bottle out from the shelf and opened it with a hiss.

“Are you drinking beer Richard?”

“Mmmm.” He acquiesced guiltily. “Turns out that I quite like it after all. Easier than getting draft in here.”

“Anything else you quite liked while you were out here?” They were flirting easily again, a new slate. He sidestepped the question.

“A few things. So how’s that new DI?”

“Friendly.” Richard grunted, aware that he hadn’t been at his most self-effacing when he had first met the team. “Perhaps a little too friendly...”

“Oh?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Is it just a feeling that you have...?” He teased her gently, putting on an over enthusiastic French accent. God, he must be drunk.

He could hear the warmth in her voice as she laughed. “It might be...”

He sighed inwardly, reminded of the fact that Camille was on the other side of the world and, worse, fair game for any man who took a fancy to her. Which was probably most men. He couldn’t really blame the new guy. He might as well laugh about it, there was nothing else he could do. “Well in my opinion, there’s nothing worse than a DI with the hots for his sergeant.” She giggled, amazed at how easily he could talk to her about this.

“Maman loves him. He’s managed to charm pretty much the whole island.”

“But not you...”

She shrugged then realised he couldn’t see her so clarified, “like I said, I miss the old one.”

“Well the old one misses you too.”

“You managed to get it right that time.”

He looked down and realised that he had managed to drink nearly all of his beer. “Yes, surprising given that I’m now more drunk than I was at the beginning of this conversation...”

“I’m not turning you to drink am I?”

He thought about how easily he could turn to drink to numb the loss of her, then pulled himself together. “Certainly not, I’m going to bed.”

“Do you want me to say goodnight?”

“No...” She listened in amusement as his phone was thrown on his bed and she heard certain ruffled movements around the room as his clothes came off.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here. Are you in your pyjamas?”

“No.” Her stomach flipped as she thought of the other options.

“Aren’t you going to do your teeth?”

“Too drunk. What are you doing tonight?”

“Drinks with a couple of friends.”

“Make sure they don’t bring their husbands with them.

She laughed. “What makes you think I’m meeting women?”

“Oh.” He sounded crestfalled all of a sudden.

She put him out of his misery. “I am meeting women, don’t worry.”

He made a valiant effort to be nonchalant. “I’m not worried.” He was getting bed spin so sat up in an effort to combat it. He heard her ruffling and pictured her changing for the evening. “What are you wearing?”

“What would you like me to be wearing?” Her question was definitely provocative. This was getting dangerous.

“Fishermen’s waders.” He collapsed into giggles when he heard Camille’s confused exclamation down the line as he tried to diffuse the sexual tension that was already bubbling between them.

Laughing, he said, “I’m sorry...” then realised that she might not have understood his humour. He sighed. “Look it isn’t any of my business who you’re meeting up with or what you’re doing tonight. I didn’t mean to imply...”

“I know.” But she wanted to add that if he was jealous then she wouldn’t have minded. “I’m wearing my green dress.”

“Oh. Not the red one?” He tried to sound casual.

“No,” she paused unsure of whether to tell him the reason for her not wearing that one. For her never wearing that one.

He nodded, unlike Camille too drunk to realise that she couldn’t see him.

“Richard, I know it’s not the right time, but...I’m sorry. About last time.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I didn’t mean any of those things I said. There’s just something about us. We always seem to argue.”

“We’re doing alright at the moment.”

She felt a flush of inane pride at the fact that they had been able to last this long without shouting.

“Richard?”

He was drifting. “Mmmmmm”

“You need to drink some water.”

“Mmmmmmm.”

“Richard!”

He woke up with a rush and she heard him mutter something about her being a nag before she heard him gulp down something that was clearly on his bedside table.

“Better?”

“Better.”

“Good. Because if you’re not careful you’ll end up like Dwayne. Ice pack on your head in the station.”

He snorted. “Might give me some street cred. I’m afraid that they all think I’m rather dull.”

“I don’t think you’re dull.” Her voice was kind.

“You’ve changed your tune.” He had said it as a joke but it had a sobering effect on both of them as they remembered their last conversation.

After a time she said. “They’re just words Richard. I didn’t mean them.”

“I know. You’d better go, don’t want you to be late.”

“Ok. Let me know how that hangover is...” He chuckled. “Oh Richard? I’m wearing the black ones. With the lace.”

She hung up and he found himself groaning with longing for the woman he had left behind and the relationship that had never been.


	4. Calls

Their phone calls over the past month had become more frequent.  Richard wasn’t sure when they had begun, or whether they were good for his mental health.  Every hello gave him hope, and every good bye reminded him that there was none.  He had no chance of moving on while they continued and on the whole he was fine with that.  He didn’t think that had a chance of settling down with anyone now anyway and had resigned himself to being on his own a long time ago, long before Camille had temporarily and gloriously ruined that original plan. 

If he was honest, he was flattered by the thought that she still wanted to keep in touch, and that more often than not, she called him.  But if his vanity was flattered then it wouldn’t stretch to his admitting that her calling meant she wanted anything other than friendship and advice.  

So he was in limbo with no hope of getting out.  He only hoped that Camille didn’t read as much in to their phone calls as he did.  He was almost certain that she didn’t, but there were times when he wondered if her causal enquiries into friends, especially those of the female variety, hid feelings of a deeper nature.  On his part he tried to hide the smile in his voice when he spoke to her, but knew that after about 30 seconds he failed miserably.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to laugh like this with anyone or been accepted so completely for who he was. 

Then there were those glorious conversations which seemed to fade almost as soon as he put the phone down.  They covered every topic imaginable but whenever he tried to recall them, his thoughts would shift like sand and the specifics would become lost forever, leaving him only with the feeling of intense pleasure.  It had been a long time since he had had a confidant, and he unconsciously found himself revealing thoughts that he’d had no idea were bothering him; problems and vexations that he had been carrying around since almost before he could remember.  He thought it helped that she couldn’t see him, it made it easier to unburden himself when he couldn’t gauge her reaction or see the invariable roll of her eyes. 

Sometimes, after she had hung up, he’d lie in bed and try to unravel the hidden nuances in her voice, her teasing tone that did nothing to hide the smile that he could picture on her face.  And he couldn’t help but mimic her.  She had never been more intoxicating to him.

***

Six thousand miles away Camille hung up the phone and contemplated her evening.  She had plans.  She always had plans, and tonight was no different.  She was out with friends.  But the more she thought about going the more she didn’t want to.  She never seemed to want to anymore.  It felt dishonest somehow, dressing up and whiling away her time in a bar; pretending to check out guys so that her friends could try and cajole her into talking to them.  It felt like cheating.  _Cheating on a non-existent relationship_ , she chastised herself. 

Even what she now wore to work felt wrong too and as the weeks had ticked by her clothing had shifted accordingly, away from the bright and provocative outfits she used to wear.  Her wardrobe was now uncoordinated and thrown together; even her underwear (something she used to take such pride in) was dull, her subconscious gently reinforcing the fact that there was no point in it when she wasn’t going to be showing anyone. 

With a sigh she told herself again that he wasn’t coming back.  She knew that and yet still she tormented herself by clinging on to the phone calls between them like a school girl with a crush, eeking out information piece by piece, despite desperately trying to hide her feelings from him at the same time.  She had a surprising amount of information within her grasp, but it was mostly work related.  She wasn’t sure if this was because it was the only thing they had in common or if he was hiding his personal life from her or (and please let this one be true!) he didn’t have a private life.  It wasn’t too much to ask was it?  He hadn’t really had a private life when he had lived on Saint Marie.  But perhaps that had been because it was a small island and no one had really caught his eye.  _Apart from me,_ she thought sullenly at the missed opportunity that her unchecked temper had caused. 

Still, it didn’t do to sulk.  Turning her ipod on, she opened her cupboard to assess its contents.  She needed to forget.  She needed fun. 

***

Her bedroom came into bleary focus as she opened her eyes, the pain behind her eyelids intensifying as sleep regressed. She took into account the daylight creeping around the edges of her blinds, the general clutter that seemed endless and the more recent detritus of her collapse into bed the night before.  Her eyes settled on the empty side of the bed.  She was alone and for an instant her heart sank as she realised he was so far away.  Then she rallied, realising that she had been drunk enough last night to have easily woken up with company.  She was alone.  Thank God. 

She remembered her friends accompanying her home along with a very enthusiastic addition to their number.  In the raucousness of the ensuing party he had tried to kiss her more than once.   He was sweet, and on the whole someone who should have been good for her.  But in comparison to Richard, he was a boy, at least it felt like he was a boy.  _Perhaps he had a thing for cougars_ , she thought wryly and she felt guilty as she had remembered the way that she had flirted with him, leading him towards an idea that was never going to happen.  Perhaps it had been unfair of her, but the sick feeling that had risen in her stomach as he had tried to close the gap between them attested to the fact that she didn’t want him.   She had just wanted to feel attractive again.  To have been wanted.      

The noise came again and she suddenly realised why she had woken.  There was an incessant thumping coming from downstairs.  Her palm involuntarily found her temple as she made her way towards the front door, cracking it open and making a supreme effort not to grimace as she saw the same eager boy from the night before on her doorstep.  She was not in the mood for another clumsy assault on her person.  She was clearly unsuccessful in her attempt to disguise her wariness as he took a step back to prove that he didn’t pose a threat.  Or so she thought.  On closer inspection she realised that he was studying her.   

He took in her appearance, and the look he gave her suddenly made her aware of the fact that she probably didn’t look her best.  With a bite of annoyance she realised that she had lost the upper hand of their tête á tête that she had acquired last night as the sexy older woman.  A vain thought now tugged at her as she realised that he was probably thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t succeeded.  She had smudged makeup and was wearing shorts and a baggy t shirt.  Richard’s t shirt, the only thing that she had managed to steal away from him.  Despite the lengths she had gone through to acquire it, it lived in the bottom of her drawer, out of sight and out of mind.  Until last night, when in her drunken state she had clearly decided to put it on.  She had no idea what he’d even used it for, he had been too embarrassed when she had insisted that she was going to keep it to elaborate on why he had it.  But she had assumed it was for exercise.  But knowing him, it was more likely that he had worn it under his shirts. 

She’d remembered putting it on the first night that he’d been gone, burying her nose under the neckband and breathing in heavily trying to discern any residual scent left by him.  But there was nothing except the faint hint of washing powder.  She always felt disappointed by this, let down by the distinct blandness of it all.  The one item she had to remember him by was incapable of representing its owner faithfully, neither by its nature or by its use. 

She snapped out of her musings to find the man in front of her had begun talking.  “Sorry, I know it’s early, but I need my phone.”  Her eyes closed tightly shut in an effort to concentrate.  He could see that she was struggling to understand.  “I think I left it here. She didn’t say anything but opened the door and signalled that he should come in concluding that if he’d been in her house when she was drunk then he posed no threat when she was sober, if a little hungover. 

“Thanks, I’ll, um, let myself out.” 

She gave him an apologetic smile, “Sorry.”  

He shook his head, “no problem.  Big night.”  She nodded and made her way up the stairs.  

Surveying her living room he had no idea where to start.  Looking at the evidence in front of him he now understood the severity of her hangover but was slightly perplexed as to how he had managed to escape.  Scouring the table and sides he made the decision that he would be quicker if he could actually hear it.  He reached for her landline and dialled his number, rewarded by a dull vibrating noise coming from the sofa.  Hanging up, he started by feeling under the cushions for his phone, wary at what he might find there.  His fingers closed around something hard and rectangular almost immediately.  Bingo.   He was about to push himself to his feet when he heard the ring tone of another.  It was on the verge of ringing off when he pushed his hand under the sofa and made a grab for it.  He answered it without thinking. 

“Hello?”

“Oh.”  The surprise in his voice was unmistakable.  “I was hoping to speak to Camille.  Is she around?”

“Ahhh, I think she’s upstairs getting dressed.”

“Right.”  He now sounded dejected.  “Right.  Well, I’ll um...try again later.  Thanks.”

“Do you want me to tell her you called?”

“No.”  He was firm.  “No, its fine.  Thanks again.”

He was in the process of putting the phone down when Camille, summoned by her ring tone, came into the room. 

She was confused.  “Is that my phone?”

“Yeah, some guy.  I told him you were getting dressed.”  He seemed pleased that he had been able to help.

She made a thinly veiled snatch for her phone, scrolling through her recent phone calls.  Her worst fear was confirmed.  Richard. 

She fixed him with a glare and sounded petulant.  “Why did you do that?”

He gave an embarrassed shrug conveying the fact that he wasn’t really sure what he had meant to achieve by answering his phone, other than the fact that he thought he was being helpful and began to fidget.  Aware that he had probably overstayed his welcome and that he didn’t really want to ask her out anymore, he beat a hasty retreat blustering something about what a great night it had been and how he’d see her around. 

 She heard the door click shut before hitting the redial button without even thinking about it. 

“Hello?” He seemed confused. 

“Hi.”

“Camille?”

“Who did you think it would be?”

From his embarrassed silence it became apparent that perhaps he thought that last night’s conquest was calling him back. 

“I thought you were busy.”

“No.  Hungover, but not busy.”  She was glad that he had called despite the raging pounding in her head.   

“Don’t you have um,” he tried to find a way to politely enquire whether she was still on her own, “friends over?”

“No.  And he isn’t a friend.  Just someone I met last night.”  She suddenly realised, from his dejected silence, how that sounded.  “He left his phone here.”  Oh God it was getting worse.  His silence continued and she began to panic as she made her way through the house, determined to make it back under the covers of her bed to hide from the day.  “He didn’t stay or anything.”  Now it wasn’t even a one night stand, just a sordid encounter.  She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples.  Her hangover was making it difficult to concentrate.  She was in dire need of a coffee.  “I mean, he came back with a group of friends and left with my group of friends too. Nothing happened.”  Quite why she felt the need to impart this last piece of information escaped her, she now felt annoyed with herself. 

“Oh.”  A small smile had crept back on to his face and into his voice.  She gave a little groan as her temples throbbed and the light hurt her eyes.  The explanation had taken more out of her than she would have liked.  As always he picked up on it. 

“So, how hungover are you?”

She allowed herself the luxury of a louder moan.  “Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure that he didn’t find me an arresting sight this morning.  Or if he did, it was for the wrong reasons.” 

She heard him laugh and then mutter, “they go to bed with Gilda and wake up with me,” but didn’t understand what he was talking about and felt too nauseous to ask. 

“I don’t even remember drinking that much.”  She heard a squeak down the line.  “No, my drinks weren’t spiked, I just lost track of them.”

“But you might not know.”  The panic was beginning to set in.

“Richard, I’m fine.”  She was beginning to think that this conversation wasn’t going to be as relaxing as she had first thought.

“Did you feel confused when you woke up?”

“Of course I did, _I’m hungover_.”

“Do you have blurry vision?”

“Not any more, I’m fine!”

“But you used to have blurry vision.”  He didn’t wait for her answer.  “I need a picture.”

“What?”

“Your eyes, Camille.  I need to see your eyes.”

“Why?”  She felt like crying with frustration.

“To check if you’re ok.”

“Richard...” she was whining now. 

“Just take a picture Camille.”

She huffed as she put him on speakerphone and sat up, turning the camera on her phone on, before holding it at arm’s length and glaring into it as the shutter came down, knowing the only way he would accept her version of events was to do as she was told.   

There was a pause as the message sent.  “Now do you believe me?”  She heard a curious noise down the line and realised he might be laughing.  She collapsed into her bed and pulled the sheets over her head.  “What’s so funny?”

“Well, your expression for one.”  She grimaced at the thought that the only picture he had seen of her since he left was one where she looked awful.  “But mostly because you still haven’t put that picture up above your bed.”  He was referring to a painting that should have been on the wall behind her but had been propped up on her dresser for the last few months.  Every morning she was determined to hang it and every day she seemed to forget.  It stood there, day in, day out, mocking her. 

“I asked you to do it!” She said huffily. 

“And if I remember correctly, once I said I would do it, you said that DIY skills were very attractive in a man and we didn’t get much further.”

It had happened again, the gentle flirting deepening into something more tangible.  Again, it fell to one of them to try and steer them away from it. 

Camille was still hoping that the sheets around her were going to somehow block out the thumping in her brain.  All she knew was that the more she thought about nothing, the worse her hangover felt.  Perhaps a walk...her body heaved at the thought of sea air.  If she lacked the energy to get out of bed for some fresh air then she needed something else to take her mind off it.  She needed him to carry on talking.  “So...what’s up?”

He gave a short burst of breath.  “Nothing much.”  

“Oh come on Richard.  You’ve just got back from work and you just happened to want to call me?”  She sounded more aggressive than she would have liked.  She tried to temper her tone.  “I mean, are you sure nothing happened that made you want to call me?”  She interpreted his silence as an affirmation of her deduction rather than acknowledging the other distinct possibility that he just wanted to talk to her about nothing.  “Want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“You know what.  How bad was he?”  She inferred that his silence had been accompanied with a frustrated roll of the eyes.  “That bad?”

He gave an annoyed sigh.  “It’s fine.  He’s just young.  And impetuous.”

“He’s old enough to know better.  Why don’t you report him for insubordination?”

“And make me even more unpopular?  I’ll be fine.”

“But it’s happening all over again.”

He sighed again, more resigned this time and reiterated his first point more strongly.  “He’s young Camille.  And for all his bravado, he doesn’t have that much confidence.  I don’t want to be the one that knocks it all out of him rather than using that bravado and teaching him to be better at his job.”  As an afterthought he added. “You weren’t exactly completely on my side when I first arrived either.  In fact, you were pretty insubordinate yourself.”

“Only to teach you to trust me a little more.  As soon as you did that I stopped.  And _I_ didn’t do it in front of the rest of the team.”

Another sigh.  “So what would you have me do? Run to the superintendent?”

“Talk to him.”  Richard snorted.  “Seriously, talk to him.  He doesn’t sound as if he has no confidence.  The way you talk about him makes him sound cocky and arrogant.”

“Maybe he is.”  He conceded.  “But what would I say to him?  Oh by the way, I’d really appreciate it if you could stop being so disruptive to my investigations?” 

He received an unseen smile for his flippancy.  “I personally might be a little firmer, but otherwise...”   He rolled his eyes again but said nothing.  The silence engulfed them again and she enjoyed it for a little while; relishing pretending that they were close enough not to bother with conversation.  But finally her curiosity got the better of her 

“What are you thinking about?”  

He didn’t answer but she waited, knowing that all he needed was time.  It finally came when he realised that she wasn’t going to rescue him from the dearth of idle chatter.  “Just...that...” he swallowed, “I miss,” he cleared his throat, “um, I miss...” He changed his mind halfway through the sentence, “you know...you’re advice.”  He cleared his throat.  “It’s good advice.”  He trailed off.

“And it’s a shame you never take my good advice.”

“I do take it.  You just always try and make me do something I’m not comfortable with.”  He was relieved and saddened in equal measure that she had seemed to ignore his emotional faux pas.  It was probably for the best.

“That’s because my good advice involves getting you out of your comfort zone.”

“I don’t want to get out of my comfort zone.  I’m too old to get out of my comfort zone.”  He looked around him wryly at the irony of his situation.  Sitting in his old chair.  On his own.  He didn’t think he liked his comfort zone much at the moment.

She giggled.  ”You’re not old.”

“You should say that with a little more sincerity in order for me to believe you...”  He continued before she had a chance to contradict him.  “Maybe that’s why he hates me.  He thinks I’m old.”

“You’re not _old_.”   It was said with more force this time.

“Perhaps.”  It amused him how much she was trying to fight the aging process on his behalf. 

“Richard...” the silence had become awkward again.  She decided that a little teasing was in order. 

“So you think I’m comfortable?”  He made appropriately perplexed noises.  “That I’m comfortable enough to be within your comfort zone.  Like a pair of your old pyjamas?" 

“No, I didn’t say that.  You’re not comfortable.”  The truth was that Camille was so far out of his comfort zone that he could barely process the fact that that one glorious weekend had happened.  He tried to imagine her in his house and failed dismally.  Never the less he made a mental note to start making some changes.  He would get rid of this chair for one.  Things that she would like, just in case she wanted to come and visit.  As a friend.

She broke into his thoughts again.  “So I’m uncomfortable?”  There was no way he could win.  He started to splutter before she put him out of his misery.  “Because I quite like your old pyjamas.”

The sudden thought of her in his old pyjamas brought back a more recent memory to mind and he smiled knowing he had her cornered. 

“Is that why you’re wearing the closest assimilation to them that you have?” 

She knew exactly what he was talking about.  Perhaps if she hadn’t been so hungover she wouldn’t have sent a picture to him of her wearing what he was talking about.  She hoped by keeping quiet he would move on.  He didn’t. 

“Camille, I only own one t shirt which is now in your possession. I’m pretty sure I can recognise it, even when it’s half way around the world.”

She made a vague attempt to rebut his accusation.  “This is my t shirt!”

He gave a snort of derision.  “Nice try.  But the nick in the collar proves that it was once mine...”  She gave an annoyed sigh and fingered the collar, finding the small hole that he was referring to, so tiny that she had barely seen it herself.  Trust him to have noticed it.   

“It’s comfortable!”

“Which is why it was my only t shirt!”

He privately thought that if the t shirt was one of the reasons that the boy hadn’t wanted to stay and chat her up then he was very glad he had left it with her regardless of how comfortable it was. 

A sudden thought struck him.  “You don’t have any more men knocking on your door asking to “find their phones” do you?” 

“No,” she said sulkily.  “I think word will have now reached that particular bracket of eligible bachelors that beneath my make up lies an hungover harridan.  I don’t think I’ll ever be attractive again.”

Richard had to stop himself from telling her that she would always have one particular admirer that found her more than attractive.  Instead he settled for, “since when have you used the word harridan to describe yourself?”  He mentally added that she couldn’t even pronounce it properly.

“Since meeting you.”

He thought that perhaps, despite her confidence, she had taken some of his badly timed comments to heart.  He hated the idea that he might have hurt her.  “I don’t think you’re a harridan.”  Then because he didn’t want her to think that he was being too nice to her said, “not all the time anyway.”  The little huff she made gave him the impression that she was still upset.  The words were out before he could stop himself.  “And even when you’re hungover, I still think you’re the most beautiful...”  He cleared his throat aware suddenly that he was becoming overly zealous with his emotions.

“beautiful...?”  She fished, hoping that he would finish.

He cleared his throat again.  “You know...No. Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“The most beautiful woman you’ve ever taken to bed?”  It was a risqué shot, and she knew it, but she was desperate to try and get him out of his rut.  Shake him up a little.

He made the type of embarrassed and strangled noise only a middle aged repressed English man could when the subject of sex was sprung on him.  Then managed to compose himself, and laugh it off.  “Well, that’s pretty obvious.”  He was temporarily flooded with memories before managing to shake them off.  Now was not the time.  He ran an embarrassed hand over the side of his face.  “I was actually going for ‘seen’, but we can go with the sex if you like?” 

He had done it.  He had actually done it.  She gave a little victory dance on her back in bed, waving her arms and legs about manically, then tried another probe, more hesitant this time.  It was a small victory though, a tiny one.  So what if she had got him to tell her she was beautiful.  What did it matter.  He was still a million miles away from her.  A million miles away from where she needed him to be both physically and mentally. 

She couldn’t help herself, she had to know more.  Had to know if they had been a mistake, if he still felt something, anything towards her, other than the casual flirting that seemed to exist between them. 

“Do you ever think we made a mistake?”  _Gently does it, but_ _please say yes, please say yes!_

He nodded his head, his whole body screaming yes at him.  But in the silence that followed he ran through their conversations, she had never explicitly told him that she missed him, even when he had almost said it.  She had ignored it.  She wore his t shirt because it was comfortable not because it reminded her of him. She had gone out last night with her friends, and brought someone home with her.  Even if nothing had happened she had still brought him home.  She was so _young_.  He couldn’t ask her to give that up, to stop being fun for him.  And yet against all this he still desperately wanted to tell her.  He was on the verge of turning the mute screeching in his head into actual words when his time ran out.

“You’re probably right.”  She tried to keep the pain from her voice.  “And I’m so hungover now I can barely string a sentence together.  I should go back to bed.”  He grunted his acknowledgement, not trusting himself to speak. 

“I do miss you though Richard.  I always miss you.” 

She cut the line and he found himself, sitting on his own, in his old chair, in the stillness of his house, telling the dial tone that he missed it too.

 

**The Gilda quote is a lament by Rita Hayworth on how men wanted the image of her most famous on screen character and not the reality of her as a woman.**


	5. London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - another one of those chapters - hopefully not too bad though...
> 
> I've also introduced Humphrey. I'm not planning on watching series 4 and only watched a few of episodes of series 3 so forgive me if I haven't got the character quite right. But in all honestly its an original story using the established characters of Richard and Camille so it will probably be different to what you know in all respects anyway...
> 
> Let me know if there are any glaring errors though...

It was raining.

But even that fact hadn’t admitted her under the stoop of the house she was currently standing outside. Camille could only marvel at the rudeness of Londoners. This would never have happened on Saint Marie. She was pretty certain that anyone on the island would have whisked her in out of the dank air and provided a towel and a hot drink while she recovered. But this was England. And apparently people were more suspicious of each other here, to the point where general courtesy was ignored.

The man was talking again.

“I’m sorry, just to clarify. You want me to let you, a total stranger, into my neighbour’s house.”

“Yes, but...”

“Without knowing anything about you.”

“Yes, but...”

“Richard’s never even mentioned you, and with respect, you don’t really look like his type.” Ouch. Well that hurt. She tried to force herself to remain polite.

“Yes, but with respect to you, you don’t really know him do you, other than saying a passing “hello to each other as you put the bins out. And the only reason you have his keys is in case his alarm goes off again.” It was the man’s turn to look shocked. Clearly people in London didn’t talk back after receiving a dressing down, and she had known about the alarm...She took the opportunity his stunned silence presented to continue. “Look, I’m happy to wait on the doorstep while you go in. There is a photo of me on his bedside table, I know there is. Then you’ll know I’m not lying.”

It was a gamble. She knew there would be no photo on his bedside table. He didn’t even know she was coming but it was a risk she was willing to take and if was anything like Richard he wouldn’t want to violate another man’s privacy. His eyes narrowed at her. The idea going into another man’s bedroom was not appealing. “Why don’t I just call him...” His hand reached for his phone and she had to work quickly to stop him from placing the call.

“No!” If anything, this made the situation worse, and he looked even more determined to ring Richard. “Please, I flew over here as a surprise.” He still wasn’t convinced and as a last resort she reached for her purse. “Look I’m with the Saint Marie police.” The man had clearly never heard of Saint Marie. She grew even more exasperated. “Just Look!” She thrust her badge in his face and he began to look pacified. “Call my colleagues, please, just don’t call Richard.”

The badge seemed to do it, the phone went reluctantly back in his pocket. “Stay here.” The door closed in her face, reopening a moment later with him holding a set of keys. He glanced out behind her and for the first time seemed to register that it was still raining. He grabbed an umbrella, not bothering to offer her one and led the way, Camille rolling her eyes behind his back.

***

Cold and wet she had decided to take a shower, privately fantasizing that Richard would come home, surprise her and join her. But on more reflection she realised that he would probably be alarmed at hearing his shower on and would in all liklihood call for back up. The idea of being caught in the shower by an armed response unit was not so appealing. After nearly half an hour of scrubbing she found that the hot water was beginning to falter and she reluctantly got out, drawing a little smiley face on the mirror in the steam offering it up as a silent prayer for her success.

Eschewing the idea of finding somewhere to sleep, she had looked longingly at his bed, perfectly made as always, before deciding against it. Dressing, she had wrapped herself in a rug and settled herself in with a magazine, some wine and crisps she found in his kitchen and waited. And waited. And waited.

It was 7 o’clock and still no sign of him.

The later it got, the more time she had to contemplate what the hell she was doing. She had been too caught up in the excitement of her plans and her ideas for the future that she hadn’t really thought them through. And the more she did, the more she began to think that she shouldn’t have come. She felt the colour rise in her cheeks when the full weight of her actions suddenly settled themselves in her stomach. It was a huge risk.

She hadn’t really been thinking properly when she had found herself at the airport buying a ticket, all thoughts had been of escaping, of finding him, being with him, no matter how far away he was. He would look after her, that much she knew to be true. But she also knew that in all their conversations he’d never once given her a clean indication that he loved her. Or even wanted her. Not since that one message. And the more she thought about that, the more she rapidly came to the conclusion that she should leave. He didn’t want her. She knew he didn’t. They talked and they laughed, but there was nothing beyond that, was there?

And then there was Humphrey. Poor, sweet, accident prone Humphrey. She would never have come if it hadn’t been for him. It had been a knee jerk reaction to something that had been stewing between them for a while, something that made the corners of her mouth turn down in disgust. She had run away. But had she run to the right person? And what did she even hope to achieve by coming to London?

And then, she realised that she didn’t care if it achieved anything. She needed him, and if he didn’t need her then...she took a deep breath. She didn’t want to think about it. It would hurt, that much was obvious, but at least she would know. It would be over.

She wondered how much longer he was going to be when finally she heard the key in the lock. The clock on his desk, which had once been silent, now struck its seconds out loud in time with her heart rate as she sat rooted to the spot wondering what to do. She’d had all this time to prepare and still didn’t really know what to do. Should she meet him in the hall or stay where she was and let him come to her? She tried to remember if she’d left anything in the hall. She heard nothing from the other side of the door apart from clothes being shaken and shoes being discarded so she assumed she hadn’t.

She heard him on the phone and realised with a rush that he was trying to call her.

 _Hi. It’s me. I just wanted to..._ he paused. _I er..._ He took a breath and composed himself. _I’ll try you again later._

He hung up and she heard him say a rather quiet and dejected, “damn.” She suddenly felt guilty that she was intruding on his privacy and wished that she had greeted him immediately.

Pulling her legs up underneath her defensively, she contemplated her next move. To greet or not to greet. It didn’t really matter anymore, he would see her soon enough. She was on the verge of standing when she saw that the door knob was already turning and suddenly he was in front of her, tie in one hand, buttons being undone by the other.

***

It was the type of rain that he had longed for when he was on Saint Marie, prayed for even.  And he was fed up with it.  Beautiful drizzle giving way to heavy rain and back again, a welcome relief from the heat wave summer they were otherwise having in London.  He had spent the week boiled and soaked to the bone in turn and the cold now perforated his clothes and his skin, the wind had tousled his hair and the rain had seeped through his shoes. 

He sighed as he opened his door, shaking his umbrella and then opening his mac and doing the same with the leaves of his coat.  Hanging both up, he tried to call Camille quickly, no luck.  He turned to glance at the mirror hanging over the radiator in his hall.  Old.  He looked old and grey.  Even his face looked grey because of the weather.  Looking closer, he raised his hand to his face and moulded the skin under his fingers, manipulating it so that it bagged and smoothed before falling back into place, wrinkles and all.  He swore silently under his breath, self loathing coursing through him.  Then turned away and began to take stock of how cold he actually was.

Looking down he surmised that his shoes were the main culprits.  Wet footprints, muddied the floor beneath him, outlining his tread before disappearing in rivulets to trace their way back to his front door.  He kicked them off and pulled at his wet socks disgustedly.  He wondered briefly whether to remove the remainder of his clothes in the hall instead of traipsing through the house leaving a wet trail of cold London behind him and was pulling at his shirt tails as he entered his sitting room becoming aware for the first time that he had left a light on

Resigning himself to an evening writing up paperwork he dumped his briefcase on his desk and rounded the corner, stopping dead in his tracks to find Camille sitting on his sofa, magazine in hand, coffee on the table.

**

She led with a rather lame, “surprise!

Somewhere in the silence his brain was able to process the fact that the rain had slackened a little outside but when it came to the woman in front of him he was suddenly and completely unable to function. 

Camille was also aware of the silence.  That he hadn’t yet moved towards her.  She tried again.  “Is this a nice surprise Richard?”

He realised that she looked almost shy, and he thought for the first time that she might be nervous about an unplanned visit, that she might think he wasn’t happy to see her. He forced himself to speak, unintentionally avoiding her question in his rush to formulate a sentence. 

“What are you doing here?”

It was her time to be flummoxed.  She had been so sure that their reunion would be instantaneous that she hadn’t thought to prepare a tactful answer for the reason that she was there.  She wasn’t really sure what to tell him.  Whether to lie.  

In the interminable silence she realised that he was still waiting for her answer.    _Why hadn’t she called him first?_   She said the first thing that came into her head and hoped that it was enough to satisfy his curiosity.  “I only got the time off yesterday.” 

“Why?”  No such luck.  This was the question she had been dreading.  Trust Richard not to have let it go.  He pressed again.  “Camille?”

“Humphrey wanted me to take a couple of days away from the office.” 

Her answer still didn’t satisfy him.  “Why...?” 

He was immobile.  A figure set in stone, as unreachable 5 feet away from her as he had been when an ocean separated them.  She looked embarrassed, awkward and a little ashamed.  She felt sick.  “I think he’s...  She saw the look he was giving her and knew that there was no way out of this.  “He, um, tried to kiss me.” She looked at him and to her relief he looked furious.  A chink of hope began to replace the sick feeling in light of the evidence of his anger. 

“But it doesn’t matter Richard.  Honestly.  He was drunk and really embarrassed about the whole thing.  He said it would be easier for a couple of days if I wasn’t in the office, so he could pretend it hadn’t happened then get things back to normal.  He gave me extra leave.”  She shrugged and hoped it was enough.

She tried to push him for a reaction.  An emotion.  Any emotion.  “You don’t look very happy to see me.”

“Camille, you’ve just been sexually assaulted by a senior officer...”

She felt strangely belittled by him.  Sitting whilst he stood, he held a strange power over her.  She shifted uncomfortably then stood, in an effort to get closer to him, to fight for him.  “And I came to see you.  I wanted to see you.  I want to be with you.  Just because I don’t want him doesn’t mean that I don’t want you... 

“I’ve missed you Richard and...” she took another deep breath, “I want us to work.  I _know_ we can make it work.  And if we can’t then I at least want to try, and I know you wanted to try too.  Before...but, I‘m so scared you’ve changed your mind, that you don’t want me anymore.” 

He suddenly remembered that he was allowed to touch her, that she was his and found the courage to move to her, to wrap his arms around her, pulling her in close, breathing her in.  

He was barely audible as he kissed her and soothed her.  He murmured her name and her confidence returned, deepening their kiss as they manoeuvred their way back towards the sofa, scattering the remainder of the magazines and the empty coffee mug.   

She settled on top of him and he realised that they were dangerously close to the point of no return.  He managed to wrench himself away.  “Camille, wait.” 

She stilled and looked at him confused.  “Why?”

“Well I mean, don’t you want to talk some more?  We don’t have to dive straight in...I don’t want this to feel...” he searched for the right word, “contrived.”

She huffed her frustration at the irony at him wanting them to talk not being contrived and continued to push him towards the back of the sofa.  He was blustering now.  “We can’t, I mean...I haven’t...”  He took a deep breath and tried again, tried to stop her.  “I wasn’t expecting you.  I don’t have...anything.”  He gave her a meaningful look and willed her to understand.

She drew him back into a kiss and held something up in her hand, the crinkle of the foil caught his attention briefly before his lips and mouth and tongue found their mark again.

His heart rate soared.  “That’s very presumptuous.”

“mmmmhhhhh...”  It was. 

“We should go upstairs...”

“mmmmm,” she nodded her assent but continued to push him down into the sofa, tugging his belt free, unable to contemplate leaving him even for the briefest of moments in order for them to move upstairs. 

“The neighbours...”

She continued to nod but choose to ignore his excuses, putting them down to his usual bluster.  She had no intention of stopping now, given that she was sitting in his lap. 

Until  - “Camille, can you just...wait...stop!”

She pushed away from him, seeing him and understanding what he was telling her for the first time.   

“I...I...”  She had a horrible sensation of falling, the room seemed to bulge and constrict around her in turn, making her dizzy.  Her breath seemed to stick in her throat but she managed to stutter, “I shouldn’t have come.”  She was mortally embarrassed, silently berating herself.  She should have listened to her gut, and not tried to see something which so clearly wasn’t there.  

He didn’t want her, she had wasted so much time wanting him and he didn’t want her.  She looked at the door, assessing how quickly she could get to it and out of the house without coming into contact with him.  She didn’t care about her bags.  She’d hardly brought anything with her anyway.  She just needed to escape. 

She pushed away from him further, struggled to her feet and was in the hall before his brain could process what was happening.  She was leaving.  She was here, in his house.  And she was leaving.  He found his voice again.

“No, please don’t go.  I’m sorry.”  She was almost running now in her haste to get away from him so he allowed a little bit of desperation to creep into his voice, knocking in to his coffee table in his rush to get after her.  He swore loudly. 

“Camille, please!”  He had caught her, his hand on her arm.  He had no recollection of reaching for her, but it did at least have the benefit of bringing her to a stop. 

Everything was perfectly still for a single moment. 

“I’m sorry.”  Then with more conviction.  “I’m sorry.”  Her stance changed, her frozen stride lessened and her body settled in to a position of standing.  She looked broken.  “I didn’t know you were coming.   You didn’t tell me you were coming.  I was just...surprised.” 

His hand was still on her arm, the only point of contact between them.  She shrugged off his excuses, feeling the weight of him on her, his skin against hers.  She remembered the last time she had felt his skin, and now could only focus on her feeling of shame, at her tricking her way into his house to surprise him, at her complete and utter failure to seduce him.

A month of pent up melancholy, frustration and bitterness culminated in tears.  Angry tears which filled her eyes.  She tried desperately to stop them spilling down her face, she didn’t want him to see her cry again, wanted some dignity at least.  

She tried to hold them back as her heart sank even more at the thought of leaving, of going home.  She had hoped that that would change.  That she could have had a home with him.  That once he had seen her again he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands off her.  Instead he had questioned why she had come at all.  

He was talking again, “Camille, I’m sorry.  Please...,” trying to pull her back in to his sitting room, out of the danger area that the hall presented, but she was immovable.  But she was wary, she needed something more from him now.  Reassurance perhaps, that he didn’t think any less of her for her lack of propriety and dignity.  Her pride had taken a hammering. 

His other hand reached for her free arm and he forced her to look at him.  “I’m an idiot.”  Her eyes didn’t meet his.  “Look at me.”  Still nothing.  “Look at me!”  Success this time.  “I’m an idiot.  She gave a half hearted attempt at a smile.  “And I’ve missed you too.”  He let that sink in for her. 

She still didn’t understand.  “Why did you tell me to stop?”

He looked as if he didn’t want to tell her, but knew in light of what had just happened that withholding anything would never wash with her.  He gave an embarrassed sigh.  “I’ve never really been with a woman who’s instigated...that sort of thing...”  He took a moment to swallow, to get some saliva back into his mouth.  “I’ve spent so long dreaming that you might...that I might see you...” he tailed off.  “I didn’t want it to feel like some sordid vivid daydream.  I don’t want to treat you like that.”  He prayed that she knew what he was talking about. 

She nodded.  The idea that he had thought about her like that since he had left, that she hadn’t been the only one, put a small smile back on her face.  It gave him hope. “But I definitely don’t want you to leave”.  His hands had worked their way to her face and around to the back of her neck, pulling her in to him, whispering how much he had missed her in her ear and peppering her face with kisses, her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her chin.  Nowhere escaped his attention.    

He rested his forehead against hers and took a moment to familiarise himself with her again. 

Her mumbles turned to a gasp as Richard moved to her neck, his hands already searching for the hem of her t-shirt, breaking away from her momentarily to bring it over her head.  He brought his palms to her skin, needing to feel her in his hands but elicited a scream from her instead as she pushed his hands away. 

“Cold hands!  Cold hands!”  He broke away from her laughing wickedly as she laced her fingers through his, trying to slow him down and warm him at the same time.  He tried pulling her away from his front door again and found her more receptive this time. 

Walking backwards his eyes traced their way down her body and he was delighted to see that his cold hands had had the benefit of puckering her nipples which were now straining at the fabric of her bra.   She leant back into him and kissed him slowly, lingeringly, their tongues gently touching, exploring, remembering.  She felt a hand on her face, gently pushing her away.

“Are you sure this is what you want?  Am I what you want?”  He cursed his brain and upbringing that made it imperative to explain this to her before they made love instead of after.  His body needed her too much.  “Camille, I can’t half commit to this.  It’s going to take a lot of effort to keep us together.  And we won’t have a lot of time.  Not to begin with.”

“I know.”  He saw that she was determined, that her mind was made up.  There seemed to be nothing else to say on the subject so she said, “I’ve missed you.”

He inhaled sharply scarcely daring to believe that the woman in front of him with her arms resolutely wrapped around him had flown six thousand miles to see him purely because she missed him. 

She felt his hands on her thighs and braced herself for the chill of his fingers against her stomach, her skin goosing in preparation, but it never came.  All she felt was a gentle warmth and she felt her skin bloom, but for an entirely different reason. 

His hands around her waist seemed to ignite something for both of them and their kiss deepened still further, playful and serious in turn, slow and languorous then nipping and biting, his hot breath in her mouth over her skin, in her ear.   Her hands stumbling over his shirt buttons in her rush to work her way down until she found herself at his waistband, pawing at him.  The memory of their first time together suddenly surfaced in his memory and he hardened still further against her clumsy attempts at his fly. 

And suddenly it was open and she was pushing her hand inside to free him, relishing the feel of having him in her hand again, guiding him out towards her, hardly caring about her haste until:

“Ow, Christ, go easy!”  They were rushed gasps but they weren’t of pleasure.  She paused unable to understand why he was suddenly in pain.  She looked down and realised that in her haste her grip and the angle were not ones conducive to pleasure.  She giggled her apology and kissing him, pushed him gently back on to the sofa, freeing him from his trousers at the same time and removing her own at an impressive speed, standing on the material in order to tug her own legs clear.  She looked down to find him smirking at her, clearly amused at her rush and the fact that she had not divested him of his underwear.  But she was back in his arms too quickly to care, revelling in their closeness, their heat and their excitement as she pushed him on to his back.   

She didn’t tease.  Not this time.  She needed him too much.  Rolling her hips deep on to him she sat upright her face tilted upwards.  She afforded him the perfect view.  Back arched, her body rose above him.  His inability to see her face was strangely erotic too, the unknown woman, and he found himself wishing for her to turn back towards him if only for a glimpse, to pull him back from this dream like state into reality again.  His hands seemed to channel his frustration as he held on to her tightly, terrified that she might suddenly change her mind and leave him as he had left her. 

How she had ever thought that they would have been unable to reproduce the passion of their first time together was now inconceivable.  Every nerve ending was on fire as she broke away from his lips and upped their tempo to accommodate her own need, not thinking that he might need something different.  She found Richard try and take control back from her in order to slow down and at first she resisted him, all thoughts of any contraception buried by her need as he awkwardly shifted himself back up, trying to change them for a position more conducive to endurance rather than speed.  For a moment they fought, lovers locked in a fierce embrace that only heightened their passion. 

There was only so much that the cushions could take.  

They gave way underneath them, unbalancing them both and tipping them on to the floor in a heap.  He came to rest on top of her a little shocked.

“You alright?”

She nodded and her giggles complemented his grin when she saw that he had achieved what he had wanted to all along.  Pinning her down she remembered how surprised she had been by his strength the first time, pushing then picking her up against the wall of her home, legs wrapped around him as he barely registered her weight in his need to get her to bed. 

He released her for a moment propping himself up on his side to take care of his boxers and the contraception issue that she had so wilfully neglected and she ran an appreciative eye over his skin following the contours of his muscles, wondering silently if he had been exercising more since his return.  His desperation added a sense of urgency to the task in hand but evidently it wasn’t fast enough.  She huffed her impatience at him only to be met with an equally frustrated look that told her he was going as fast as he could. 

And suddenly he was pushing back inside her again as her laughter at his ineptitude morphed in to a gasp then a moan.  Circling her with his arms she wondered if she felt more protected this time because it meant more to them.  She bucked herself up into him a move designed to get him to return the favour, wondering why he refused to begin, only to be told that he needed a moment.  She laughed, loving his honesty and his overwhelming need to please her. 

Questioning her with that lopsided smile of his he began to move. 

The frustrations and longing over a two month separation coupled with his break ensured that she reached her plane before he did.  He held her there teetering on the edge before a series of cries meant that he could hold out no longer.  Racing towards the end, their lovemaking culminated in a frenzy of passion and outpouring of emotions.  It was too much for both of them as they bucked together one last time, her fingernails clawing at his back, then collapsed exhausted and spent.

Heavy breathing subsided while skin prickled with heat returned to normal and still they held each other, Richard not daring to let her go in case she vanished and Camille terrified that at any minute her facade would slip and she might cry. 

He felt her nails graze his back, and catch on his skin.  Back and forth they went, up and down, bringing him gently back to earth.  He tried to shake off her hand with a casual shrug of his shoulder to no avail.

“Hey!” It was a gentle scolding but it caught her attention.  The hand stopped. 

Never knowing the next step with Camille was and had always been part of their relationship.  As he lay there he tried desperately to think of some way to break the silence that now engulfed them both.  He wanted so much to talk about the future but had no way of starting the conversation that she wouldn’t think was unromantic.  He tried to deflect his emotions with a joke. 

“You know, if that’s the welcome I get when I come home then you can break into my house as often as you like.

If she realised what he was doing then she didn’t try and unmask him.  She was hiding as much as he was but the difference now was that they had time. 

“I didn’t break in.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “Stephen let me in.”

“Stephen?”

“Your neighbour.”

He huffed.  “Well that would explain the curtain twitching I received when I came home this evening.  How on earth did you get him to let you in?”

She gave him a knowing look and he felt a sudden surge of possessiveness even as he knew that that particular flirtation wouldn’t have got her anywhere with him.  “He took a lot of persuading.  You might not like him but he’s trustworthy.” 

Richard mulled that particular thought over.  “I have a feeling that if I wasn’t in the police he wouldn’t be so trustworthy...”

She conceded his point.  “He seemed to have never heard of me.”  She pouted.  “Don’t you talk about me Richard?” 

“I’ve been doing my level best in between your very provocative phone calls to try and move on from you.  Your siren song has proved irresistible.”  She looked smug and he went back to indulging himself with the feeling of her skin under his fingers.  “At any rate I think you’ve probably proved your existence.”

“What’s that meant to mean?”

He bit his lip in amusement.  “You’re quite loud Camille...”

She looked a little chastened but still tried to fight her corner.  “You’re lucky you got any at all considering that photo over there.”  She indicated one of his bookshelves and he followed her gaze to a plain wooden frame where Dwayne and Fidel were smiling at the camera.  Another figure was conspicuously absent by the extra arm that was draped around the twosome.  The photo had clearly been cropped.

“Did you hate me very much?”

There was a decidedly pregnant pause and in an effort to starve off the beginning of her melancholy he leant over her to retrieve his cast off jacket, rummaging around in his pocket before placing his wallet on her sternum.  Running a single finger to the end of her breast bone in thought he settled himself next to her again pulling the blanket from the back of the sofa over them.  She shot him a questioning look then understood and placed her hand over it, her fingers in turn trailing back and forth over the tooled grain of the leather, reluctant to look inside.

“Don’t you want to see?”  She shook her head and pressed herself closer, smiling into his chest, the original at last usurping the place of the copy. 

 


	6. Friday Lunch

She had been taken aback by the noise of the police station. She remembered the chaos and general bustle from her time in Paris but had gotten used to their quiet camaraderie that they had shared on their island. If she had felt a little self conscious upon entering the foyer then it had only increased when several of the officers had stopped their conversation to watch her progress to the main desk.

One in particular had been eying her up. She knew the type: leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, an arrogant sneer on his face. She tried to convey her disgust before turning to the desk but to no avail. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she felt him move closer, his eyes boring in to the back of her. She wished that this was any other station so that she could put him in his place but didn’t want to embarrass Richard, they were bound to find out who she was sooner or later.

A friendly constable behind the desk came to her rescue, polite amusement laced her voice as she saw her predicament. “Can I help?”

She gave an apologetic smile and handed an envelope over the desk. I was wondering if I could leave this for someone. The woman looked at the name on the envelope and shrugged. “Sure.” Camille’s phone buzzed and she mumbled an apology before stepping out of the way a little.

_In the park, meet me there? 5 minute walk._

She was back in front of the desk. “Sorry. I need to get to the park?” She noticed with some annoyance that the man who was watching her had slid closer. She thought he had also now been joined by a colleague. He was standing a little further away though, as if he was embarrassed by his friend’s behaviour . She counselled herself to patience and tried to concentrate on the directions now being given to her.

Halfway through the man, who was now so close to her that she could smell his cheap aftershave, interrupted. He wore his lack of merit with bravado, his arrogance denoting the fact that he was a constable, too stupid to realise that it would do him no favours. He spoke with conceit in an accent that Camille didn’t recognise but assumed to be London. She tried to imagine Richard as a constable, so different in every way to the man standing in front of her.

“If you’re going to the park, I can show you. We were heading that way anyway.” He indicated to his colleague who, to give him some credit, seemed a little more embarrassed at the obvious chat up line. Camille caught the eye of the interrupted woman in front of her who returned a sympathetic look.

“That’s very kind, thank you.” The man stood aside to let Camille pass and she did so with some reluctance knowing full well that he was openly checking her out. His colleague redeemed himself yet again by getting the door for her.

The walk was as Richard had said - 5 minutes. Next to a main road, which thankfully made polite conversation almost impossible. All they had managed to get out of her was that she was meeting someone. The more he tried to mine information, the more she relished him actually finding out who she was meeting. The more he spoke the more she found him to be disingenuous and disagreeable. He reminded her strongly of Doug Anderson, an entitled man child and her pace quickened as a way of getting rid of him. It didn’t put him off as his step matched hers. She was grateful at least that she had changed her shoes to something more appropriate. Heels would have made his leering so much harder to bear, harder to have ignored.

He clearly thought that she was meeting a female friend. “You know, you could join us, if you liked.” He was walking stomach first, leaning back in to it, his legs too wide apart, assuming that this made his look more masculine. It didn’t. Camille thought he looked ridiculous, like a preening dancing pony. She didn’t respond. He didn’t seem to notice that she wasn’t interested. “If you’re new to the area, we can show you around, perhaps take you out for a couple of drinks. There are some great bars around here...”

Camille thought she’d never been so relieved to see the gates to a park in her life. Her patience was almost at an end and her feminist streak was threatening to rear its ugly head as the man practically devoured her with his eyes. Her pace quickened still further, eyes roaming the green space.

“Hmm? Oh no, that’s fine, I’ve got plans for the weekend and then I leave, so...” She was trying to let him down gently, but despite an almost complete lack of interest from his shy colleague he refused to let her go that easily.

And then she could see him. And he was reading. She almost stopped to admire the picture of serenity that he created as she wished for the umpteenth time that she was on her own so that she could save the image for when she returned home; along with the fact that his hair stands on end when he wakes and the fact that he tastes of marmite in the mornings, something she had very recently discovered she found abhorrent. She smiled at the memories, and at the fact that he had insisted on brushing his teeth thoroughly in order that he could kiss her again.

He caught her gaze, misinterpreting it as an interest in the bench rather than the occupant. “Oh him. Don’t worry about him. Easily moved.” She gave him a questioning look. “Won’t mind giving us the bench, probably won’t even notice you. Hasn’t so much as looked at a woman since he got here.” He raised his eyebrows, “not sure he’s interested, if you know what I mean...”

He hadn’t bothered to keep his voice down and they were almost on top of the bench, and not for the first time Camille wondered how Richard had been able to work with him without saying anything.

“Sir...”

“Jones..?” Richard seemed surprise to be addressed by a junior member of the force, until he realised that Camille was also standing in front of him. He understood immediately as his eyes took in her annoyance and a small smile flicked the corner of his mouth, its subtle meaning lost on all except her.

“Would you mind if we joined you on the bench sir?” Jones flicked his eyes over to Camille and she saw his jaw harden imperceptibly, but if he was annoyed by his predatory nature towards her he didn’t say anything. He stood and a small arrogant smile graced Jones’ face, presumably pleased that it had taken minimal effort to make a senior officer do his bidding.

“You can _have_ the bench if you want it Jones.”

This was almost too much for him, and he flashed a quick triumphant look at Camille, as if to say _told you so_. “Yes sir, that would be really kind.” There was a faint hint of patronisation to his tone almost as if he was doing his superior a favour by deigning to talk to him.

“Oh not at all. I mean,” he looked at Camille, “providing you don’t want it to yourself Sergeant Bordey?”

Smugness turned to nervousness as he realised that the woman he had been trying to chat up was also a superior. Richard watched as he mentally ran through his conversation with her, he could practically see the cogs turning inside his head. Camille took little time to relish this small victory as she shook her head.

Richard addressed his two younger colleagues. “Looks like its all yours then.” Thinking that he still had a chance with her, Jones shot him a look of glory that turned to confusion as he watched Camille take his boss’ hand. She didn’t bother to keep her voice down as they walked off.

“So, according to that constable, you’re not interested in women...”

“Yes, didn’t you know? Haven’t so much as looked at another woman since I got here...” he took delight in quoting his constable word for word. “Rumour has it that I’m gay...” She giggled and he bit back a grin. They walked a little further before he turned to her. “Are they looking?”

She surreptitiously turned her head. “Yup. Jones has his phone out. I think he’s trying to get a picture.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me, I have a feeling that my bachelor status is now forever ruined.” His arm came up around his shoulders as he guided her to a clear space under a tree.

***

They had tried to keep their lunch private, Camille had insisted on sitting on the grass in the relative shade of a tree despite Richard’s whinging, but it seemed that word had gotten out about Inspector Poole’s date. The park had a slightly larger police presence than it usually did.

“Is it really so bizarre that you might be interested in me.” She raised an eyebrow which seemed to quell his inquisitiveness. “Don’t answer that.” Camille’s response had been to sit closer, lean on him and steal kisses when he wasn’t looking, revelling in the fact that he was becoming more and more flustered by her attention.

“Are you going to miss it?”

“Hmmm?”

“Your bachelor status?”

“Oh absolutely.” He’d said it so quickly that she had missed his sarcasm. “There’s something about being a single man in your 40s that just seems to have the ladies tripping over themselves to be with you...” She became contemplative and he was worried that she had taken his flippancy seriously. “Is everything alright?”

She nodded, “it’s just taken me a long time to tune in to your sense of humour.”

He became slightly subdued, “sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’d much rather be with you than tweedle dumb and tweedle dee over there. At least you respect me.”

He looked around him quickly to make sure that no one was in ear shot. “I didn’t respect you very much last night.”

She gave him a look laced with provocation, “no you didn’t.” He had the good grace to look away in embarrassment, “but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” She watched as a small smile bloomed on his face and stole another kiss, but this time he didn’t flinch or try to shift away. Instead he took her chin in his thumb and first finger and drew her in to him for a lingering kiss. They heard a cheer relatively close to them and Richard pulled away immediately, horror turning to embarrassment then acknowledgement.

“I should go...”

She pouted. “You could always skive ...”

“I’d almost certainly get away with it too given the lack of witnesses to our date...” he indicated the numerous police officers milling around them then caught the expression on her face. “What?”

“It’s our first date.”

“mmm,”

She shrugged. “I’d forgotten that we’ve never had a date.”

He was already on his feet, brushing down his trousers as he held out his hand to help her up. “Should I take you out to dinner tonight?”

She shook her head as she too clambered to her feet, her hands resting lightly in his shoulders, her thumbs brushing at some invisible mark. “No, I’d rather have you at home.”

He studied her for a moment then indicated with his head that they needed to get back. She fell in with his stride, her hand seeking out his, her fingers lacing themselves through his own.

“Camille...”

“Just until we get closer.” He accepted her need for reassurance, quietly thrilled by the fact that she was happy to associate herself with him so publically. He didn’t think the novelty of her skin against his would ever wear thin but still rubbed his thumb against hers gently, further reinforcing their unity, in his mind at least and relishing the creases in his skin he could feel under his own.

“Does that mean you’re going to cook for me?”

“I might...” she realised that he might be expecting a little too much. “You know, pasta and sauce is the extent of my limited knowledge.”

“I find that hard to believe, given the fact that you grew up over a restaurant.”

Her tone was playful. “It’s more of a bar really...anyway, why do you think I ordered takeaway last night?”

He almost told her in no uncertain terms _exactly_ why he thought they ordered takeaway, then thought better of it. Instead he settled for a less explicit, “I didn’t think either of us were in the mood for cooking last night.”

“And I was hoping that neither of us would be in the mood for cooking tonight either...”

They had left the park and were at the main road, the noise of the traffic giving Richard a welcome break from the conversation as they walked on in silence, leaving him trying desperately to clear his head before he arrived back at work. He squeezed her hand gently to let her know that he wasn’t taking the opportunity to ignore her on purpose, then released it. She understood that he would rather say goodbye while they were still a little away from the station and slowed, letting another man in a suit pass them in the process. He nodded quickly at Richard.

“Inspector.”

“Sir.” The man took in everything in one assessing glance. His eyebrows rose quickly in the briefest of acknowledgements to their relationship, then he was gone.

Richard tried to ignore him, but he was clearly torn between wanting to spend more time with her and being eager to get back to work. The park had been emptying steadily and he was already one of the last to return. She guessed that his boss had also just beaten him back into the building.

“So I’ll see you tonight, slippers by the fire, dinner on the table?”

“Is that what you really want?”

He smiled enigmatically, kissed her quickly and said more firmly, “I’ll see you later.” The details he decided were best left to her.

***

Walking into the station he was stopped at the desk by the constable.

“Sir?” he raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “This was left for you.” His raised eyebrows turned into a frown so she continued, “just before lunch...” She trailed off when she saw that he clearly had no idea what she was talking about and handed him an envelope which he took with some confusion when he saw Camille’s writing. _Why hadn’t she given it to him herself?_ He ripped it open and out fell a credit card. He held back a smile and pulled out his phone.

She picked up with a laugh as he said, “That, Camille is theft and if you’ve used it, fraud.” She laughed again as he contemplated whether to be angry or grateful, given that it meant that he was in a fully fledged relationship. “When did you even take it?”

“You said I should enjoy myself...”

“I said...” He held his tongue, and bit the inside of his lip deciding to ignore the fact that she had chosen to do it with his credit card and cut to the chase. “And the pin?”

She exhaled derisively, “please, like that was the difficult part.” His gratitude was beginning to turn to worry.

“Are you at least going to tell me if I have any money left in my account?”

“Enough for you to take me to dinner.”

“I thought we weren’t going out to dinner?” He was met with an amused silence and tried very hard to be stern with her. “Ok, so how about telling me what you’ve spent my hard earned wage on?”

“I can’t hear you...you’re cutting out. Richard?” He knew she was lying, he could hear the traffic quite plainly.

“Camille? Camille!”

“Richard? No I can’t hear you. I’m hanging up now...”

He huffed his annoyance, raising his eyes to the ceiling then suddenly realised that he was close enough for the PC to have heard everything he had been saying. He also knew that she would have seen what was in the envelope. He turned to her, pleadingly.

“Any chance when I leave, you’ll keep this to yourself?” She tried very hard to look innocent and he knew he was doomed. He shook his head and sighed, knowing that it was fruitless to have even asked. “Of course you won’t.”

He walked quickly down the corridor towards the stairs, turning briefly back as he reached the bottom step in time to see her reach for her phone.

***

The man had indeed been Richard’s boss. And although he had been surprised to see Richard in such an intimate situation outside the station he had also been pleased for him. The man spent too much time at work in his opinion. A damn fine officer but in need of a bit of relaxation. He revised his last thought: a lot of relaxation. He was too uptight. The thought jogged another memory for him and he remembered a letter on his desk. Perhaps it was time to action it. He had more than proved himself of being capable after all...His feet changed direction, taking him to the bullpen where Richard’s team were based.

He noted, not for the first time, during his short walk that his shoes (with the possible exception of Poole’s) were the only ones in the entire building not to make a noise on the floor beneath him. He despised rubber soles, there was something so modern, so unprofessional about them. There had been less of them when he had first started, he winced at the memory of hearing shoes squeaking in the morgue (of all places) for the first time as a younger officer. It was such an indelicate sound, a cheap sound, cutting through the grief of the parents he had accompanied there; leaving an ugly vacuum in the air after it had vanished, unable to be filled by condolences. It was a noise designed purposefully to annoy, like nails on a blackboard. And now the station was full of them. Cheap and unpolished shoes. Shoes with flat soles. Shoes than ruined your knees, your ankles and your arches. He wondered when and how they had become the norm, and why the general public tolerated them.

Perhaps that was he went against the grain of his colleagues and liked Poole so much. It was true that they showed more indifference rather than open dislike, but in Poole he saw a lot of the man he could have turned into if he hadn’t married early and had originally pitied him. He was traditional. Did things by the book, even though it hadn’t made him overly popular. It could have been so easy for him to have made the same mistakes. He now saw that the man wasn’t a loner. He was just deeply private.

There was a steady hum from the different offices he passed, voices, printers, papers being shuffled. But he noted, a little annoyed that there was one voice that was becoming increasingly loud. He set his jaw. He knew exactly who it was. He also knew he wasn’t the only person who found him insolent. He was interested to see how Poole’s team dealt with him though. He stood by the door and watched.

***

Jones was holding court as usual, men hanging off his every word because they lacked the individuality or intelligence to do otherwise. “I’m not kidding, fittest bird I’ve ever seen and Poole walks off with her. How the hell did that happen?” He directed the question to no one in particular, but looked around for reassurance and saw several other constables nod their heads. He was almost satisfied. It was pretty easy to get them on side but he needed another opinion. He turned to the nearest woman on their team.

“Did you see her, Lauren?”

She was politely indifferent. “No.”

“Pity. Would’ve been good to get your opinion.”

“On what?”

“Well there’s obviously something wrong with her. Mentally, I mean.”

She put down the paperwork that she was reading through. “What _is_ your problem with him?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

She laughed openly. “You clearly do, which is weird because since he joined us, our closure rate has almost doubled and we’re actually starting to get some respect around here.” She levelled with him and asked perfectly seriously, “are you intimidated?”

He scoffed. “I’m not intimidated by Poole...”

“ _Inspector_ Poole.” She corrected, he didn’t look particularly bothered by the correction.

“I just don’t understand what a girl like that’s, doing with a guy like him.”

She couldn’t believe what she was seeing in front of her and almost couldn’t be bothered to put him in his place. But there was something about that smug gloating look on his face that she couldn’t let go. She knew his type, had made mistakes with his type before and wasn’t about to sit idly by and watch him attempt to ruin her bosses reputation and the reputation of a woman she’d never even met.

“You don’t get women do you Nathan? I mean, you think you do, but you don’t really. I’m guessing it’s why you’re a serial womaniser. Not because you enjoy it, but because you can’t get one to stay. I’m also guessing it’s why you place so much emphasis on the number of women that you bed.” He looked uncomfortable.

“So I’ll tell you what she probably sees in him. She probably likes the fact that he’s a quiet, reserved, respectful and intelligent man, instead of a brash, boorish, arrogant arsehole like you.” She shrugged her opinion as she delivered her coup de gras.

There was an audible exhale of breath from the rest of the team and one of the women gave her a catcall of support, she looked around to see where it had come from to see another woman brushing off her shoulder and winked at her.

Sensing a lost fight Jones was gathering up his confidence and his cronies muttering something about women being brutal when it was their time of the month.

“Great come back Jonesey!” She called after him.

She turned around to find Wicken watching her and realised too late that she might have pushed too far. “Sorry sir.”

“Don’t be. I’m impressed you can hold your own.” He studied her for a moment, trying to debate whether in the future he should put her up for a promotion or not. He decided to keep his eye on her. “I would ask if Inspector Poole was back from lunch, but I assume not?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell him to see me when he’s back will you?”

“Of course sir.”

***

James Wicken looked up at the knock on his door.

“Come in.”

“You wanted to see me Sir.”

“Yes, yes I did,” He indicated the chair in front of him, “sit down.” Richard took the seat a little warily, anxious that this might be a reminder that work should be separated from personal life. He didn’t think a quick kiss outside the station counted anyway. He was pretty sure that Wicken had already been in the building when he had kissed Camille anyway.

Trying to occupy himself with thoughts outside of being fired, he took a look around the office he had been in so rarely.

The whole room smelled faintly of bleach. He knew that some would have called it bland, too regimented, but to his mind it was just well ordered. The desk was almost totally clear, which he approved of. The in tray empty, the out tray full, ready to be taken away and filed. There was no pending tray. He himself hated pending trays, you either did a job or you didn’t. There was one individual photo of what Richard could only assume to be his wife and another of some children (again, probably his) staring down at him from the shelves where the latest annual reports were stacked in order. There was no sofa. Perhaps Wicken didn’t want to encourage people to get comfortable. They might stay longer than intended. There were no frivolities.

The ticking of the clock reminded him that he had absolutely no idea why he was in this neat yet slightly sterile office, but that perhaps he was about to find out. His eyes snapped back to his superiors and he realised to his annoyance that Wicken had been watching him with vague amusement.

“How are you settling in Inspector?” Richard frowned, trying to work out where this was going. “Good team?”

“Yes, thank you sir. A couple were a little rough around the edges, but given time I think we’ll become a well oiled machine. We can always improve.”

“Improve on the double closure rate you’ve achieved already?”

Richard wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Wicken let him suffer momentarily. “You’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you here.” Not letting him answer, he opened his top draw and removed a letter. Casting his eyes over it he then handed it to Richard letting him read it in silence, watching him as his frown deepened. He got the distinct impression that Inspector Poole wasn’t happy.

“Congratulations Inspector.”

Richard looked met Wicken’s eyes. “This is pending your approval Sir?”

“Yes, which I’ve just granted. You’re now DCI Poole.” Richard sat in silence. “It is usual on these occasions to say thank you...”

Richard was stunned. “Sorry sir, thank you.”

“But...”

“But nothing, Sir. It’s very...exciting.” He sounded anything but excited.

Wicken sighed, it was time to play the friend. “Might this have anything to do with the woman I saw you with outside Richard..?” He left the end of the sentence open in the hope that he would Richard might elaborate a little but all he received was a momentarily shocked look in regard to the use of his Christian name. “Might I also hazard a guess that had I not called you into my office you would have visited HR at some point either today or tomorrow?”

Richard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. _How the hell did the man know so much?_

Wicken smiled. “May I offer you some advice?” Richard nodded, there wasn’t really any way that he could say no. “Take the promotion. Regardless of what comes next.” _That at least was sound advice,_ thought Richard. “Then go home.” Richard was still nodding so he clarified. “Take the day off.” Richard now looked horrified. “Take a couple of days off. Think about it and let me know. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Sir I can’t take a couple of...”

“Do you have any cases at the moment?”

“Yes, several...”

“Any that can’t be handled by your team?”

“But Sir, the paperwork...”

“Take it home. Spend some time with...”

Richard took the hint this time. “Camille.”

“Camille.” He nodded his understanding.

Richard had another thought. “Am I being reprimanded for something Sir?”

Against his better judgement Wicken laughed. “No Inspector. Contrary to popular belief I’m not a tyrant. The welfare of my officers is of great importance to me. And if I remember correctly you have taken on a lot of overtime recently. HR have already alerted me to the fact that you need to take some of the days off that you have accumulated. I’m telling you to go home and take them now.”

“And there’s nothing I can say on the subject?”

“No inspector. There isn’t.” Richard, he was beginning to realise had clearly never missed a day’s work in his life, unless it was life threatening.

Resigned, Richard stood. “Thank you Sir.”


	7. Friday Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An antidote to the preposterousness of Series 4 (yes, I said preposterousness).

Turning the key in the lock he called out a greeting and was surprised to hear no response.  He hadn’t called to say he was coming homing so what did he expect?  It was a beautiful day and she had said that she wanted to have a look around.  Sighing, put his keys on the shelf in his hall, under the mirror and moved to his desk.  Shrugging off his jacket he hung it on the back of the chair and put his briefcase next to the blotter. Looking around he saw some of the changes that the last 24 hours had had on his house.  Order no longer took precedence.  Evidence of Camille’s existence lay on every surface.  The empty coffee mug from the morning, a pair of shoes strewn by the door (not placed neatly side by side as he would have done), a thin scarf draped over the arm of the sofa, some tubes of makeup on the mantle under the mirror.  For the first time he realised that he had no inclination to clear it up. It proved so resolutely that she wanted to stay, that her life was with his.

 _Careful,_ he thought, _she’s only here for two more days._ _Don’t get ahead of yourself._

But where he now didn’t care about the mess, he did care about the blandness of it all.  _How had he not seen it before?_   Everything was so dull, no eye numbingly boring in white and cream.  He closed his eyes and tried to picture his sitting room, individual pieces of furniture, pictures, colours.  Items swan in and out of focus but he failed to settle on anything in particular outside of his books.  The books injected colour, feeling and personality into the room.  The only possessions that spoke of his character.  Everything else was instantly forgettable.  _Just like me_ , he thought sourly.

Before, it was all he had wanted to escape back to, the familiarity of home, the comfort of normality, of paving stones under his feet.  But once those first weeks of work had passed and he had settled into routine he found himself longing for people.  For companionship, for camaraderie, for friends.  It had been why he had reached out to old acquaintances, forced those God awful pub drinks on himself.  He had been lonely.  He wondered again what Camille saw in him. 

Deciding on a cup of tea he made his way into the kitchen, stopping at the door to marvel at yet more mess.  Cupboard doors had been left open, a set of scales were on the side and an assortment of ingredients lay scattered on the surfaces.  Clearly Camille had been trying to cook. 

He called for her again, perhaps she wasn’t outside.  She wouldn’t have left all this mess on the sides surely?  Still no answer.  Flicking on the switch of the kettle he started to wonder where she was.  Perhaps she was in the bathroom.  He didn’t think she would answer him if she was there?  Nodding his assent to his thoughts, he was surprised to hear the front door slam shut and Camille’s voice filter through to the kitchen.

“No Maman, I’m fine.  I’m back in a couple of days.”  She was clearly struggling to carry something judging by the pattern of her syntax and footfall.  Richard made a dive out of kitchen to help which resulted in Camille screaming and dropping one of the bags with a smash.  She glared at him before realising her mother was still on the phone.

“No Maman, I’m fine, I just got a shock.”  She paused allowing her mother time for a reply.  “I’ll call you later ok?...I know...Love you too.”

Richard looked sheepish.  “Sorry.” 

She didn’t say anything, too relieved that he wasn’t actually a burglar, and he retreated back into the kitchen to get a cloth, dustpan and brush.  Returning, she picked the bag up containing the mess within the plastic.  He gave the floor a cursory wipe, seeing that there was no need for anything else then followed her into the kitchen standing behind her as she surveyed the mess she had left behind.  She made a quick decision to put the bag in the sink (already full of her morning’s breakfast detritus).  The sound of broken glass clinked out amongst the china, signalling her already ruined attempt at dinner 

He stood watching her, studying her as he had been unable to do in the park.  The stickiness of the air ensured that her thin dress clung to her, becoming tauter still as she leant over the sink, and he felt the beginnings of possessiveness stir within him at so many of his colleagues seeing her as he saw her now. 

His eyes trailed from her shoulder to her fingers then up again, taking in the slim musculature of her upper arms, her smooth forearms and the thin bangle she wore around her wrist, highlighting the delicacy and strength of her all at once. 

He could see the outline of her bra caught between the material and her back and for the first time didn’t begrudge it as he usually did when he saw it on other women, because he found it sexy, knew that if he wanted to he could be the one to take it off her, that he was the one allowed to take it off her.  His eyes followed the line of her spine, from her neck, past her shoulder blades.  He cast an appreciative eye over her lower back and down still further.  He lingered, then felt a flush of embarrassment followed by guilt at treating her in exactly the same way that every other man had treated her that afternoon.  At wanting to own her. 

But he didn’t feel guilty enough to stop.

She could feel him behind her, assumed that he was assessing the mess, and for the first time felt guilt at the way he had come back to his house.  “In my defence all this would have been cleared up by this evening.”

“Oh?”  He had moved behind her.

“So I’m not sorry it’s messy.

“No.”  He dropped a kiss on her neck.

“And it’s your fault I dropped dinner.”

“Ok.”  Another kiss. 

She seemed to think he was mocking her, thought she could feel his smile against her skin.  “It’s not funny.”

“I didn’t say it was.” 

“You could stop smiling then.”  His response was to smile more and flick one of the straps off her shoulder, replacing it with another kiss.  Clearing up, he decided, could wait. 

***

Skiving, Richard mulled, was clearing something he had been missing out on.  In this particular moment, he ceased to begrudge all of the times his colleagues had left him to cover for them. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t done the same.  A small voice tried to tell him that this wasn’t really skiving, that he had his bosses permission to be away from the office, but he waved it away, too content to listen or to care. 

A promotion, a day off and a beautiful woman in bed with him.  _Was this his life?_  

This sort of thing never happened to him.  It happened in dreams.  Only, before he’d met Camille those dreams hadn’t actually been particularly good.  A sort of faceless contract between two people, sometimes involving him, sometimes not featuring him at all.  It actually seemed pretty sexless looking back on it.  Sexless and boring.

Then Camille had changed all that, and the three months in London on his own had created some of the most vivid and memorable fantasies that he’d had since his teenage years.  The type of fantasies that made his face flush on the tube when he let his mind wander off, that made him check other passenger’s reactions for signs of embarrassment at his behaviour and that made him make sure that he still had control of his body (heaven forbid he should ever lose that).

If he was honest then he wasn’t certain that this _wasn’t_ a dream.  The reality surpassed even the fantasy.  She was perfect.  Everything that he had remembered and imagined and more.  And...he stopped.  She was perfect. 

Well, that didn’t happen.  That never happened. 

She felt him stiffen next to her and managed to stir herself enough to try and sooth him.  “What is it?”

His mind was still going through the evidence.  She wouldn’t.  Would she?  Camille sensed that he was no longer in the same euphoric state that he had been in 30 seconds ago.  “Richard?  Is everything ok?”  She was fully awake now. 

“Yes.  No.”  He was clearly having difficulty making his mind up.  “Yes, no, its fine.”

“Richard....?”

“I mean you had a good time didn’t you?”

“A good time?  When you were out?   Yes, I did some shopping, you know that.”

“No, I mean, you know, a good time...now...”

She laughed.  She knew she shouldn’t have from the moment it left her mouth but it had happened so quickly that she couldn’t stop it.  “Are you asking me if I came Richard?”

He began to bluster.  “No, no of course not.”  He seemed to realise what he’d just done, “its fine.  Honestly.”

It was Camille’s turn to become embarrassed.  “I thought it was obvious?” She suddenly understood and her amusement turned into disbelief.  “You thought I was faking?”  She said it again without the question, as an accusation and a statement.  “You thought I was faking.”

It was becoming increasingly clear to Richard that he had probably been wrong to bring it up.  She hadn’t changed since that first time on Saint Marie.  But, that was the point, she hadn’t changed from that first time.  Shouldn’t she be sick of him by now?  He found himself becoming lost trying to work out the female psyche. 

“You think I’d fly halfway around the world so that I could fake an orgasm with you?” 

He was becoming defensive and snorted his derision at her question.  “No, obviously not!  Look can we just forget I said anything.  We really don’t need to talk about this.”

“Oh, I think we do.  After all, you brought it up.”  She couldn’t resist a little teasing and had rolled on to her front, propping herself up on to her arms so that she could look him straight in the face.  At any other time he would have been grateful for the view it afforded him but at the moment he wanted to look anywhere else other than at her.  “So...”  Her question brought his eyes back to hers, they were full of humour.  “What makes you think I was faking?”  He shot her a look a severe look of unease and didn’t answer.  He should have trusted himself more.  He wasn’t that bad with women, at least he hadn’t thought he was that bad.  And if she was faking then surely she wouldn’t want to be with him as often as she had been in the last 24 hours.  He swallowed and shrugged but she didn’t let him off that easily.   She put on an air of innocence.  “Was I too loud?”  He was now studiously ignoring her.  “Or perhaps I was moving too much...?  No?”

“This isn’t funny Camille.  What are you doing?”  She was climbing on top of him.

“I was going to show you the difference between a real one and a fake one...”

“Oh for God’s sake...”  He broke off as she dissolved into giggles, he had no choice but to reluctantly join in.  He rolled her on to her back and kissed her. 

She became contemplative as she ran a hand through his hair.  “Do you honestly think I would lie to you about something like that?”  His look said it all and she waited knowing that with Richard all he needed was time.

“Its’ just...too perfect.  I thought...” He shrugged. 

She was smiling at him again.  “You know, most women don’t shout out as many instructions if they’re faking.”

“I did wonder about that...”

She stifled a giggle and apologised.  “Sorry...is it weird?”

“No, I quite like it.” 

 “Oh really?”

“Mmmmm.  Reminds me who’s boss.”  She bunched her fist and hit him playfully on the shoulder a he huffed his amusement into her neck.  He was already moving his kisses further south, his lips caressing the taut skin over her collarbone, when she had another thought 

“What are you doing here?”

He lifted his head vaguely confused by her question, mishearing her, thinking that his intentions had been perfectly obvious.  “Um, you said before that you liked it...I was just...”  He indicated a finger at her body to prove his point.  “I can stop if you like?”

“No!”  Her tone implied that he was an idiot.  “What are you doing back here?  Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Seriously – it’s taken you an hour to work out that I shouldn’t be at home...?”  He widened his eyes and giving her a look, reminding her teasingly that perhaps her detective skills had been somewhat compromised.  She shot him back a look that told him she had been a little preoccupied from the moment she had come into the house.    “Wicken sent me home.”  Camille, thinking that he had been reprimanded for something was, for once, too stunned to talk.  It was for the best, he thought.  He knew that once she worked herself up to it, she’d be shouting at the bureaucracy of the police when it came to their understanding of relationships for the next half hour.  He’d never have got the rest of his story out if that happened so he ploughed on quickly, shushing her first reaction then summarising as best he could.  “It’s not like that.  He gave me a promotion.”  She still looked speechless but the anger had gone.  She was now looking at him in disbelief.

“You know,” she said jokingly, “that is the worst lie I’ve ever heard you say.”  His face fell, and she realised that he might have been telling the truth after all.  “That’s not a lie?  It’s true?”

He was becoming testy.  “There’s no need to sound so surprised.” 

“I’m not surprised, you deserve it.”  She held his face in her hands.  “You’ve always deserved it.”  She kissed him.  “I’m so proud of you.” 

He was suddenly reminded of his mother when he told her about his first exams, his graduation results, his police entry exams.  He pushed her away, embarrassed and a little disgusted that he’d managed to conjure up his mother at a very intimate moment with his girlfriend.  On top of that he was now uncomfortable that she said she was proud of him. Why on earth was she proud of him? 

It wasn’t as if he’d done anything over about above the call of duty.  When he had been called back to the UK, he had been under no illusion that it came with a promotion.  It simply hadn’t been part of the deal, just an understanding that he needed to come back to head up a team in London.  If he was honest, he’d been annoyed at first.  They’d sent him out against his will.  Kept him there against his will, and when he’d started to like it out there they’d sent him back again.  And offered him nothing for his trouble.  No promotion.  No pay rise.  Nothing.  He’d given up on climbing the ladder at work.  Had thought that he’d annoyed too many people earlier in his career for that to have ever happened.  He had nothing to be proud of. 

He tried to push her hands away, “Camille...” She giggled but held on to him, rolling with him, propping herself up in front of him again. 

“And he sent you home?”  She sounded more confused by this part of the story. 

“He said I was owed time off so I should go home and spent time with you.”

She couldn’t understand his sudden change in temperament, hated the idea that she might be the source of his annoyance.  “Are you in a mood with me?”

“No I’m not in a mood with you!”  He resented the fact that she was making him feel 12.  The image of his mother flashed in to his head again. 

She giggled and leant towards him trying to placate him with another kiss and a soothing tone, “baby...”

That was too much for Richard.  “No.  Not baby.  I am not baby.” 

She giggled again, trying out the term of endearment for a second time in a teasing manner this time.  “Baby...”

“Camille, please no.  Literally anything else.”  She looked like she was about to give him a variation on baby so he cut her off.  “Non baby related.” 

She pouted and he knew he was doomed.  That however often he begged Camille not to, she wouldn’t listen.  The most he could hope for was that no one, _no one,_ ever heard his new pet name.

***

Kissing her, he had found, was the only way he had been able to stop Camille from talking.  Out of all the ways to put an end to her teasing it was certainly the best one he could think of.  His mouth hurt.  He didn’t think he’d ever kissed anyone as much as this and he found himself mulling over the fact that being in love was hard work. 

He pulled himself up shortly.  No, not in love.  He wasn’t in love.  It didn’t matter that he was lying to himself, he just didn’t want to admit it.  Not yet.  Not after such a short amount of time.  Not when he knew so little about her feelings.

There was so much more to come, at least he hoped there was.  Perhaps she might agree to living with him, a life together, perhaps even a family, if the idea wasn’t totally abhorrent to her.  He found himself idly thinking about where they might live. 

Saint Marie.  It had to be.  He couldn’t imagine her anywhere else.  He thought about the island and smiled to himself.  How strange to think that it had offered him so much when he had hated it so vehemently at the beginning.  The heat; the sand; the music; the food; the tiny police station; even the friendliness of its people.  He had hated it all.  And it had repaid him by giving him Camille.

His thoughts stopped dead, then backed up.  The tiny police station.  The tiny police station with its tiny budgets. 

He hadn’t realised that he had sighed quite as loudly as he had.  He found the proximity of her face swam in and out of focus a little and was reminded once more about his failing eyesight and the perils of aging.  But she needed to know.  

“I can’t go back.”

Sensing that once again the earlier mood had vanished but no idea why Camille found herself trying to guess his thoughts and failing miserably. 

“Go back where?  Richard?”

“You don’t need a DCI.”  The reality of what he meant began to sink in for her.  Budgets.  Their budget was too small for him now.  There were two choices if they wanted to stay together, he could either give up his job and move to St Marie, or she could apply for a transfer and move to London.  She refocused her attention on him and found that he was rambling, “I didn’t think that it was going to come down to this so soon.  I’ve just got you back and now...”  He took another deep breath and said quietly, “I suppose I could resign...”  It was so quiet that she had almost missed it.  Clearly Richard didn’t think that she would move.  She moved to take his hand, snuggling down into his chest.

“We’ll survive.”  She felt him nod, but it had been done in such a half hearted manner that it suggested that he couldn’t mimic her confidence.  “Week by week.  That’s all we need, then we can decide what to do.”

He tightened his arm around her and pulled her in close, placing a kiss in her hair, praying that she was right and that it would work. 


	8. Friday Evening

Richard was beginning to dread cooking.  The idea of dressing, of clearing up and cleaning the contents of the bag before even starting made him long for another takeaway.  But after the take away the mess would still be there.  The only difference would be that the contents of the bag would have hardened even more, making the clean up operation so much harder. 

He mumbled in her ear and waited.  Nothing.  Camille was clearly asleep.  Gingerly he lifted his arm from her midriff and slid out of his side of the bed, making sure that he didn’t let in a draft as he did so.  Picking up his clothes he was in the process of stealing out of the door when he heard a sleepy voice.

“You know, you can’t run away from your own house don’t you?” 

He knelt on the bed and kissed her.  “I’m going to clear up downstairs...”

“With your shoes?”  He shrugged his answer, an apology for his character so set in its ways that he was unable to leave his shoes on the bedroom floor when they should be on his feet.  

***

The evening light was shifting through the kitchen window, bathing him in a muted golden glow.  It reminded him of the countless sunsets on Saint Marie he had ruthlessly ignored: the beautiful view that had greeted him every morning where the sea kissed the sky, the isolated beach that no one seemed to use, the quiet and stillness of the evening and the stars.  He looked out of his window at his tiny garden and the ugly brick wall that stared back at him now.  The jack-hammering of a pneumatic drill had long since finished, the workman all having left for the day, but it wasn’t quiet.  London was settling into her nightly ritual, the steady and rhythmic stream of traffic noise mutating into something more tangible as commuters revelled in their forthcoming weekends.  Too late he thought again of how much he had missed out on by being so short sighted, of what he would give to be back there again. 

Sighing, he opened the bag in the kitchen.  He could see that a pot of pesto had made a valiant attempt at escape, smearing its glutinous green gunk over the rest of the bag’s occupants but that there wasn’t too much that wasn’t salvageable with a bit of water.  One by one the ingredients made their way to the safety and cleanliness of the side, fresh from their impromptu bath.  It was only when he’d finished that Richard’s brain started working on the next conundrum, mentally trying to assemble them into something edible. 

He was saved from his thoughts by the soft padding of her feet against the carpet which turned into the slapping of flesh against the linoleum of the kitchen floor, alerting him to her presence.  He began to wish that he wasn’t wearing shoes, that he could join her in the mundane romanticism of relaxation.  He felt too straight laced.  He always felt too straight laced. 

 “You didn’t have to come down, you know.”

“I know.  I thought you might want some help.”

He wasn’t going to say anything, but he had been annoyed by his thoughts, angered by his stubbornness and embarrassed at how much time he had wasted on a once in a lifetime opportunity.  Time he couldn’t afford.  Something deep inside of him twisted and a drop of bile was squeezed into his gut, demanding that he be condescending. 

“To clarify – help with your assorted array of ingredients?”

“My...?"

He snorted his laughter.  “What on earth were you planning on cooking Camille?”  She followed his gaze to the curry powder that had finally made its appearance.  Curry and pesto.  Her mind went blank.  _What had she been planning on cooking?_

“Something from the Caribbean perhaps?  I notice there’s no goat meat though...could you not find any?”Heseemed to realise that his last comment had been deeply patronising.  He didn’t want an argument, they’d spend almost 24 hours with no arguing.  Why did he find it so difficult to be nice to her?  He risked a look at her, smiling that half smile to let her know that he hadn’t really meant it, that he was contrite and mumbled, “I’m sorry.  I’m sure it would have been delicious,” whilst putting the bag of broken glass in the bin. 

“No.  It probably wouldn’t.”  Her business like reply made him snicker, told him that he was forgiven.  “Do you have a better idea?”

“Carbonara.”

“Carbonara?”

"Well it’s not goat curry, but it is fairly easy.  Unlike you, I’m not completely useless in the kitchen.”

She looked like she didn’t believe him. “Or the bedroom.”

He rolled his eyes at both her teasing and the obvious reference to their earlier conversation and held up a finger as an admonishment.  “Concentrate.”  She rolled her eyes and went to change the music.   “Ah ah ah... _I’m_ cooking.”

“Yes, so you’ve pointed out.”

“So I get to choose the music.”  She shot him a pleading look.  Classical music in her opinion was not conducive to the type of evening that she had planned, especially this classical music. It was heavy, not because it had clashing percussion or an overbearing wind section but because she felt it was familiar, almost intrusively so.  It was impossible to think of anything other than the music. 

It filled the air, sucked out conscious thought, made her want to stare into nothing, think about nothing.  And she resented that. 

She wanted to be able to talk to him, they had so little time together, but the soaring piano made it almost impossible.  Recognising the problem from the increasing frown on her face, he decided to offer her an olive branch.  Albeit a very one sided olive branch.    

“You can change it when the piece is over.”  He winced as he realised that he sounded like he was lecturing a bored teenager and hoped she hadn’t noticed.  He had put this particular piece on because he felt that it was suitably unchallenging, something she would be able to tolerate until the end.  Romantic?  Sure.  Taxing? Not so much.  It wasn’t exactly Wagner, more background music.  He realised how patronising that sounded, how far they still had to go to understand each other. 

She hadn’t noticed, too thrown by his peace offering.  Pleased that they had managed to come to a compromise by bypassing an impending argument, she moved away from him, opening his cupboards again and Richard could only watch in horror as everything he’d so carefully put away re-emerged on the side again in glorious confusion.  He supposed he’d have to get used to doing things a little differently now.                                                   

Searching for ingredients she found that she was beginning to enjoy it.  How had she not realised how relaxing and invigorating classical music could be?  Two opposing sides of a coin, working together so seamlessly.  She regarded the man standing with her in the kitchen, reflecting the music so perfectly.  The piece worked its way up to a crescendo, and she realised how attracted to him she was at that moment.  She felt flushed with excitement, her heart racing from the deftness and dexterity of the musicians, the direction of the maestro and the masterful construction of the score itself. 

And even though her feelings were being manipulated so effortlessly, she wondered what it might be like to make love to him at this very moment.  To sweep everything on to the floor, to feel the hard unforgiving wood of the kitchen table against her back while the music kept them to an unrelenting pace.  

The piece came to a shuddering stop and she looked up to find him looking at her.  She blushed, wondering if he had been privy to her thoughts. 

If he had, then he managed to hide it from her.  “Like it?”

She feigned indifference, hoping to throw him off and moved to change the music again, using her movement to hide her flush from him.  “It’s alright.”  

He bit back a smile.  “Good.”  He held out his hand towards her again, an invisible restraint blocking her way.

“You said I could change...”

“When the piece is over Camille...that was the first movement.”

“You...!”  She had been about to swear at him, but instead grabbed the nearby dish cloth by one end spinning it around into a cylindrical snake, taking aim at him as he broke into laughter. 

He put a possessive hand around the back of her neck and pulled her into a kiss.  Flutes, a clarinet, piano, violins, there was another roaring in her ears, her mind went blank, everything except the music, such a familiar melody...

She stopped him with a hand against his chest, her brain trying to process what she was hearing.  “This is Celine Dion.”

“No, it’s Rachmaninov.” 

“No, it’s Celine Dion.”  She started singing in time to the music, “When I was young, I never needed anyone...”

He snickered.  “As wonderful as your singing is Camille, this is Rachmaninov, and I can assure you he was around a long time before Celine Dion.  Rather like Disney’s Sleeping Beauty uses Tchaikovsky’s ballet...”’  He winced again, hoping that she didn’t think he was belittling her again.  He hadn’t had to explain this sort of thing to anyone before.  He’d always just sort of assumed that they knew it. 

She looked as though she was about to argue with him, so he drew her back into the kiss again as she giggled. 

“You’ve seen Sleeping Beauty.”

“Yes.  When I was a child...”

“And you know who Celine Dion is.”

“Yes.”

 “Do you like Celine Dion?”

He sighed.  “You are an exceptionally annoying woman.  And I have to cook.”

“Is that a no comment?”

“It’s as close as you’re going to get to one without burning the bacon.”  She released him begrudgingly and went through his cupboards to find plates, glasses and cutlery. 

Laying them on the table again, she reflected again at how beautiful it was, at how she could have missed this if Richard hadn’t insisted on her hearing it in full, at how narrow minded she could have been had she simply dismissed it.  At how much she could have lost if she had dismissed him in the same way she had tried to do with the music. 

She stood looking at the man in front of her.  A little thrill of excitement ran through her as she studied him.  He wasn’t a big man by any means, his medium build undermined still further by his unassuming and reserved nature.  She had never understood why he went out of his way to ensure that people didn’t notice him.  Why he almost wanted you to gloss over him, to not look at him.  He was good looking, (when his hair wasn’t plastered to his forehead she thought with a laugh) and in good shape.  She unconsciously mimicked him from earlier, running her eyes over his back, picturing her hands on him, his smooth hard shoulder blades, down over his flank to the coiled muscle of his stomach.  She imagined her hands in the hair on his chest, something she loved, purely for the reason that she assumed so few people knew it was there.  She mentally traced it down to his naval and beyond.  When the daydream left her she found herself studying the waistband of his trousers, his tightly tucked in shirt, which to her mind at least, begged to be released, to be scruffed up.  She knew he would hate that.  His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and for a moment she was lost in the memory of those arms around her, of trailing her fingers over his bicep, feeling the fuzz of his arm hair against her skin. 

The piano came into its own again, soaring around her and she felt a great swell of emotion threaten to break within her, the hairs on the back of her own arms stood on end and sadness welled up throughout her entire body.  She had no idea why a few choicely picked chords set against a backdrop of strings could make her feel like weeping but there it was.  Joy and sadness sat within her side by side.

Perhaps it was because she knew the modern version, the lyrics running through her, in time to the music.  Perhaps not.  Either way, she decided, the music on its own was like the end of some mad torrid love affair.  The joy, marred by the feeling of loss, of knowing, of loving and of failure.  And all of a sudden she realised why she wanted to cry.  Needed to cry. 

Their mad love affair.  She leant on the table, it shifted briefly across the tiles, unused to the sudden extra burden and Richard glanced over to check she was alright.   

“Camille?”  She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, knew her voice would break if he made her.  She hadn’t heard him come to her, but suddenly he was there, turning her face towards his, seeing the single contraband tear that had streaked its way down her cheekbone towards the top of her lip.  He used his thumb to wipe it away. 

His voice was gentle.  “It gets better.  I promise.”  She wasn’t sure if he was talking about the music or them, but nodded, attempting to smile as she let him hold her, the overwhelming need to cry receding as he did so. 

She sniffed.  “Sorry.”

He shook his head to tell her she had nothing to worry about.  “Do you want to stop?”

“No, I want to finish it.”  She still didn’t know what they were talking about, but knew that she did want to finish it, through to the end.  All the way to the end. Even if it did make her cry. 


	9. Friday Night

The remains of dinner lay on their plates.  Camille dragged a finger through the sauce, smiling cheekily at Richard as she put the same finger in her mouth. He did his best to ignore her. 

“You know I could try and get a job here.”  She saw the way he was looking at her and her heart sank.  “You don’t look very sure...”

He shrugged.  “There are so many cuts going on...I just don’t think that’s going to be an option.”  He raised his eyes from the table slowly, “unless...”  They flicked back to Camille in an instant.  “You know they’re paying people to leave...I wouldn’t be eligible for another couple of years, but after that...”

“But you love your job.”

He shrugged.  “So do you.” 

She wasn’t sure if it was too early for them to be having this conversation.  She wanted to tell him that in all likelihood it would be better for him to keep his job, that she couldn’t see him as a full time father, staying at home with their children while she went off to work. 

 _Was that what she really wanted?  Children?_   Yes she definitely wanted children.  But with Richard?  Unless something went horribly wrong then she was pretty sure that she wanted that.  She just wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted too.  She tried to find another option.  Something that would suit them both in the interim, until they had been together long enough to discuss all their options. 

“Paris is nice." 

He was nodding when it suddenly occurred to him that she might want to visit.  God he hoped she didn’t.  It wasn’t that he didn’t think Paris was nice, it probably was.  He hadn’t been for a while, probably 20 years or so, he didn’t think it wouldn’t have changed that much.  But all he really wanted to do was take her to bed.  Again.  And he really resented the idea of paying for a hotel room when it was free if they stayed at home. 

“Is it?”

“Yes.  And it’s a lot closer than Sainte Marie...”

He was still nodding his agreement.  Then, _Oh!_   He was beginning to see where she was going with this. 

“If you like, I can look into getting a job there...?

He didn’t want her in Paris.  He wanted her in London.  But if not London, then he supposed it was the next best option.  It meant he could see her every weekend instead of every...he winced thinking of how little they would see each other. 

“Where would you live in Paris?” 

“I could rent...”

“If you got a job here, you could stay with me...”  He hoped he didn’t sound too desperate.

“I should hope so too!”

He shrugged, only wanting to point it out so that she knew he wanted her.  And then another thought hit him, a much more sobering thought.

“You don’t want to go undercover again do you?” 

She shook her head.   “I don’t think so.”  She saw his sharp intake of breath, even when he tried to hide the look of shock from her.   “At least, that isn’t the plan."

She could see that he was fighting to understand, to not lecture and lambast her over something that she wouldn’t think was his business. 

“Does that worry you?”

“No.  No, no, no.  I’m fine with that.”  He patently wasn’t. 

“You’re fine with that?”  Disbelief laced her voice. 

“Yes.”

“Liar.”  He chewed back a smile.

“It’s your life, Camille.  I don’t have a say in how you want to live it.”

 _Not yet_ she thought.  She was toying with the remains of the food on her plate.  “You know, this wasn’t bad.”

“Oh thank you.”  His sarcasm wasn’t lost on her.   “Maybe, you can cook for us next time...”  She looked as though she was about to say something so he cut her off, “not goat.”

“I wasn’t going to cook goat!  You are so rude!”

He stretched a finger our gingerly across the table, hoping that she would reciprocate.  She didn’t. 

“Oh, you’re going to have to come more than half way if you want me to forgive you for that Richard.”

“I didn’t realise there was anything to forgive.”

“You are a very annoying man.”  She stated it as a fact, and one that definitely needed forgiveness.

“Isn’t that a lovable trait?”  He smiled at her, and she almost told him that she did love him.  Almost reached for him.  Almost. 

Instead she shook her head and cleared their plates. 

***

She had let him make it up to her though, thought it only polite.  And people did say that you shouldn’t go to sleep on an argument.  She smiled, wondering how much pseudo make-up sex they were going to have in the future.  Where Richard would draw the line at her suggestions.  If Richard would draw the line. 

His fingers were woven into her hair, pinning her to him, hers in turn played with the hair that matted his chest.  She liked its soft wiriness, the way he was ticklish when her hands ran through to the other side to his skin.  

She reached to his bedside table for her phone, grabbing it easily and pulling it back towards her.  If he noticed then he didn’t register her movement.  He lay still, lips against her forehead, smiling gently to himself. 

There was no shutter click, she took several of them entwined together. 

“I know what you’re doing.”  She pressed herself closer, felt his lips curl into a smile and took several more.

“I just want some for when I go back.”   His smile broadened at the fact that she hadn’t said home, then faltered as he realised that she was leaving him.  His other arm tightened protectively around her as a way of anchoring them both in the present. 

“I don’t want you to go.”

The duvet cocooned them both, shielding them from the future, from the impact of their decisions, enabling him to be honest with her. 

“I don’t want to go either.”  The phone was gone.  Her fingers were caressing his chest again, her melancholy had risen quickly, taking him by surprise.  “You could ask me to stay.”

He seemed stunned at the fact that she didn’t want to go, that she wanted to be with him as much as he with her.  “Would you?  If I asked?”

She smiled and said flippantly, “I’ve run out of clean underwear.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, bemused that she had stolen his tried and tested coping mechanism, then joined her.  “I’d let you out to buy some more, I’m not a complete ogre.” 

“And my clothes?”

He thought about this.  “They’re not practical here anyway.  It’s too cold.  You’d have to buy new ones.  So essentially there’s no point in going home.”

He turned to her triumphant and she smiled into his chest.  There was a moment of quiet between them. 

“Do we need to talk about this more?”  She felt him nod once above her, his confidence evaporating and knew that he was struggling with her leaving him, that he couldn’t trust his voice not to betray him.

She left the bed, returning shortly with a computer.  “You could book your tickets.”  He looked as though he was going to ask her what for so she continued, “to Saint Marie.  Pick a weekend.  Pick a week and book them.”

“I can’t.”  He was so firm and final with his answer that the rush in her ears and the pain in her gut seemed inevitable.  He noticed and realised that his dismissal might have been too final.  He moved to her.  “I want to, but I can’t just pick a week and go.”  He tried to make her look at him.  “I _really_ want to.  I need permission Camille.”  She gave a half nod of understanding, still feeling empty.  Of course he did, she knew that, had just thought that it would be easier for both of them if they could tackle this now. Together. 

“But I can pick a week, and as soon as I get sign off, I’ll book my tickets.  I can do it tomorrow.”  He knew it wasn’t the same.  That she had needed the reassurance of money spent, a seat reserved to know that he was coming back for her.  “We can still look at dates...”  She gave him a small half smile and waited for him to continue.  But instead he pulled out his phone and started tapping away.   She risked a half look at the screen and saw that it was a spreadsheet.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmmm?  I’m working out how many times I can come and see you.  Once I do that, I divide that by the number of months in a year, that’s taking you into account too obviously, I can take unpaid leave if I run out of holiday so...” he tailed off after seeing her blank expression.  “Unless you don’t see this going for a year...um...”  His forehead creased in embarrassment, aware that he might have just moved their relationship to the next level. 

“No, I do.  I just wasn’t expecting spreadsheets. 

He laughed and mumbled, “sorry.”  He went back to his numbers, “I just need a couple of minutes.”  She tried to snuggle down into his arms feeling him stiffen and try and wriggle away.  She cottoned on immediately.  “If you’re embarrassed about me seeing how much you earn you just need to tell me...”

“I’m not embarrassed.”  He was becoming indignant.

“You just don’t want me to see your special money spreadsheet because...”

He shrugged non-committaly.  “It feels...odd.” 

She tried burrowing down in his arms again and this time succeeded in lying halfway down on his chest.  She was mid way through turning over.  “So how much?”

“Camille...”  He gave her a pleading look and she shot him a wicked smile as he gave a sigh of relief at her teasing.  “I’m not sure I have anything left anyway after you stole my card.”

“I didn’t steal it.  I borrowed it.”

“And I still have no idea what you’ve bought.” 

She gave him the type of look that told him he was an idiot and that he was most likely looking at it.  He tried vaguely to remember her underwear.  It hadn’t looked new.  At least not that new.  She wasn’t wearing any jewellery either.  He wracked his brain for other obvious female purchases but ended up giving her a blank look.  “You’re looking at it.”  He looked again at her, then at his surroundings, his eyes finally settling on the bed.  More specifically on the rug that now covered the end of his bed.  “Is that new?”  She rolled her eyes at him; at men in general.  “Why have you bought a rug, it’s the middle of Summer?”

“Relax...I got a good deal on it.”  He frowned at her, “its cashmere.”  His breath seemed to stick in his throat at that and he mentally started revising his monthly outgoings.  Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to see her as much as he originally thought...She was still speaking.  “And because the next time I’m here it will be cold.”  His heart gave a little skip at her mention of the next time, then his pride took over and he looked hurt, almost in anticipation of failing her by not being able to keep her warm with his body heat.  “And if I want to carry on sleeping naked then I’m going to need something besides you to keep me warm.  Or I could buy my own pyjamas.”  He narrowed his eyes at this suggestion. 

“We do have central heating here you know.”

“Oh please, you love the cold so much that you won’t put it on.  I _know_ you. 

He thought about that for a moment, then came to a conclusion.  “So does this mean I can buy air conditioning on _your_ credit card?”  He had meant it as a joke but for the first time she looked guilty.  She had thought that buying him something for his house, for his bed would leave him with a lasting reminder of her.  She hadn’t considered that he might not be happy with her taking the card in the first place or that he too might have maxed out his card on something.  It was possible but she somehow doubted it. 

She buried her head into chest and mumbled, “sorry.  I don’t have any money left on my credit card so...”

“Why?”

She shrugged.  “Last minute tickets cost more than I thought they did." 

Richard was left wondering at her risking so much for him and what would have happened if it had all been for nothing.


	10. Saturday

The alarm woke them for the second morning in a row but this time with no purpose.  Richard had simply forgotten to turn it off and for a moment he was left to wallow in the confusion of the most wonderful dream he had been having and the reality that work apparently presented.  Camille was back in his bed, soft and warm and he’d made love to her over and over again.  If he could just block the alarm out for a few seconds more...a few precious seconds of her...

“Turn it off!” her arm came from nowhere reminding him of her very real presence.  She came rushing back to him in a flood as his hand now fumbled for his alarm.  It hit home on the third time of trying, sending it sprawling to the floor.  He settled back on his side again, pushing himself closer to her, realising for the first time that he was naked.  Relishing it. 

“Morning.” 

She mumbled an unintelligible good morning back at him, rubbing herself against him provocatively before spinning herself around in his arms as his hand delved back under the duvet.

But now he was stuck with a different problem.  He had forgotten what a lump she could be in the morning.  Where he had remembered a beautiful tangle of limbs and curves perfectly fitted to each other, he now recalled the slightly more gawky reality.  Clearly grace was something that Camille got after coffee, or at least when she was less out of the count. 

She was quick to drift back into a doze, shifting him from a very comfortable position into a new arrangement of limbs, something that wasn’t remotely conducive to relaxation for him.  She was effectively using him as extra cushioning for her bedding.  For five minutes it was fine.  Then pins and needles set in his legs, his arm lost all feeling and her head became a dead weight on his chest, rubbing uncomfortably against his collar bone.  Enough was enough. 

He rolled her away gently and was met with muffled huff of dissatisfaction before she settled again and he was able to swing his own legs out of bed.  If he tried anything else this morning he was likely to get a slap.  

Catching up with work downstairs had been easy enough.  The paperwork, the emails, they had been accomplished swiftly and silently, conscious that waking Camille by any method would have spelt disaster for the rest of the day.

Pushing the ream of paper away from him he exchanged it for a book.  He had no intention of reading it at this particular moment but the colours on the dust jacket brought it more to life than usual this morning and he enjoyed tracing the images on the front cover with his index finger.  He absentmindedly continued as Camille’s head appeared from behind the door.  Assessing that he had finished whatever it was that he had been doing, the rest of her shirt covered body followed as she crossed the room to his desk in a couple of strides and folded herself up in his lap, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling into the warmth of his chest and neck.

They sat in quiet contemplation, Richard eventually unhooking her arms from about him.  Instead he held her hand in his, his thumb tracing the furrows and grooves of her knuckles, rubbing out a soporific tempo, back and forth, back and forth.  She tolerated his silence for as long as she could. 

“What are you thinking about? 

He frowned, embarrassed that he was so readable, that he had been caught thinking about something so mundane when he should have been thinking about how lucky her was to have Camille in his arms. 

He risked a glance at her, saw she wouldn’t be moved and sighed.

“The house.” 

“The house?”  He knew he should have lied from her tone.  “What about the house?”

He shrugged.  How to tell her that he thought it was boring?  Unimaginative?  That he didn’t want to live in it without her? 

He went with a more tactful, “it doesn’t really say a lot about me does it?”  She looked guilty, biting the inside of her bottom lip.  “You don’t need to lie Camille, I know it doesn’t.”

The guilt turned into a cheeky smile.  “Would you believe me if I told you I hadn’t noticed?  Really, I haven’t.”

He shook his head, signifying that her lack of observation made no difference.  “Don’t you think it needs...modernising?”

“Modernising?” 

“Oh God, don’t say it like that, you make me feel old.”  She responded by rolling her eyes and ignoring him.

“So, how do you want to ‘modernise’ it?” she deliberately placed emphasis on the word he hated, knowing it would annoy him. 

He shrugged again, considering her question.  “I don’t know.  Just make it something that you feel happy living in.”  He clarified, blustering, “when you come and stay.”

“But I do feel happy here.  It’s your house.”

 _His_ house.  That was the whole point.  He didn’t want it to just be _his_ house anymore.  “It’s not exactly a home though is it?”

“Because it lacks a woman’s touch?”

She had gone straight to the point.  She always did and as usual he was grateful for it.  He hadn’t been able to bring himself to say as much to her. 

He smiled a little sadly.  “Perhaps.  I just don’t really feel that either of us live here.  It feels more like it’s rented doesn’t it?” 

She considered his last point and realised he was right.  She hadn’t really noticed anything in the house because nothing stood out as being his.  If she thought about it, she realised that it was the reason she had bought a rug for his bedroom, her own personal statement piece.  She wasn’t sure what he wanted, but she could guess.  “Do you want me to come with you to get some things to change it? 

He suddenly grasped what he had let himself in for.  A day’s shopping stretched exhaustedly ahead of him, the chaos of the people, the queues, the bag carrying, the hunger, the boredom and the annoyance.  He had half a mind to tell her not to worry, that he would take care of it when she had gone, but he knew he wouldn’t.  She would come back and it would be just the same.  Worse, it would torment him when she was gone because he would know that he had an opportunity to create something new with her and had turned it down. 

He nodded.  Better to get it over and done with. 

“Do I get to use your credit card again?” She was grinning cheekily at him.   

He sighed gently then lifted her to her feet, knowing that there was no way out of this.  She took his action as approval and became less of a dead weight, the smile growing.  It was going to be a good day.    

***

Camille had been too excited to stay upstairs.  She had tried lying still on his chest, listening to his rhythmic breathing and steady heartbeat but ultimately it was her turn to leave Richard dozing gently and sneak off downstairs.  It was something she always did after a shopping spree: laying her new purchases on the floor in order to review them.  She wanted to see what was in the bags, to remind herself of what had been bought.  She always felt a thrill that reminded her of what it had felt like to be a child at Christmas, when they had still been a family: ripping open the wrapping paper despite already knowing the contents because she had sought out the presents before they had been hidden.  She wondered for a moment if she would ever grow up and move on.  Perhaps she thought, when she had a family of her own.

Looking at the bags, she had forgotten how many they had brought home with them.  Her pulse spiked with excitement and she started by pulling everything into view.  She stood back happy.  Yes, they had done well.  She frowned at the memory of the row she had had with Richard that afternoon.  But with every argument she was beginning to understand him a little more.  It turned out that the majority of his mood swings stemmed from the fact that he was hungry, something she had only just begun to pick up on.  All that pouting and eye rolling that Richard had managed to achieve in the afternoon faded into nothing in light of Camille’s new secret weapon: a sandwich.  She smiled at her small achievement, made a mental note to start keeping snacks in her handbag, then got to work.    

***

He appeared downstairs, drawn by the smell of a home cooked pizza and the noise from the television.  Settling himself on the sofa next to her he leant forward taking a slice and putting it on a plate.  She shot him an amused look which went unnoticed, she would have been content to have foregone plates, but had known he would never have gone for it. 

He was staring at the television with a look of disgust on his face.  “What is this?” 

“Saturday night tv.”

“It looks dreadful.”

“It’s funny,” she countered.  He gave her a look that said her statement was debatable and consoled himself by looking around, spotting several of his new purchases around the room.  Camille had been busy while he had been upstairs.  Huge empty paper bags littered one end of his sitting room.  The difference, although only slight was huge.  There was colour.  He felt marginally less boring simply by being in the room.  Scatter cushions in dark reds and navy now jostled for attention on his sofa and chair.  A large rug beneath his otherwise very boring and sturdy coffee table now brought it to life and his old and trusted blanket had been replaced with something a little more island in temperament.  He felt a little pang of regret at that last change.  The blanket had been like an old friend.  But the room now belonged irrevocably to Camille.  He felt the beginning of acceptance at the thought of letting her go for the first time.  It would be a comfort to him when they were apart, knowing that she had made something of this room. 

He caught sight of the large piles of photo frames on the table and failed to keep the shock out of his voice.  “How many photos are you expecting me to put up of you?”

She narrowed her eyes at him by way of reply.  Wiping his hands thoroughly on a piece of kitchen roll (again thoughtfully provided by Camille) he reached forward to pick up one of the books he was halfway through.  He had barely opened it when he realised that it would be impossible to read, the background noise was too invasive.  He held it tightly between his hands, a talisman against the bright lights and the fake laughter and reluctantly watched as the gameshow unfolded before his eyes. 

It made no sense to him at all.   Women, and hoards of them by the looks of things all judging one man primarily on the way he looked.  He turned to Camille for clarification. “So...if they don’t like the way he looks they switch their light off...?”

“Yes.”

“Seems a little barbaric doesn’t it.  I mean, he’s alright isn’t he?”  She shrugged.  He continued to watch.  “And if they don’t like his character they can also turn their light off?”

“Yes.”  As he spoke a plethora of lights suddenly went out and Richard looked at the screen in disbelief. “I don’t understand.  He said he liked animals.  Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It is for me.   I wouldn’t have turned my light off...”

He waited a little before asking, “so you like him?” He was desperate to try to insinuate that he didn’t really care one way or the other. 

She bit back a smile as his supposed casual interest.  “He’s alright.” 

“Oh.”  Richard took one look at the much younger man on the television screen, brimming with self confidence then pushed him to the back of his mind.  

More lights went out and his confusion only grew.  “This is ridiculous - she just turned her light off because he said he liked spending time with his grandmother!”

“Shhh!”  She hit him with the flat of her hand on his chest, “I want to hear!”

Richard watched completely bemused.  Lights went out because one man admitted to liking chick flicks, something Richard privately thought would work in his favour.  There was too much male grooming, not enough male grooming, trousers were too tight, too loose, shoes too scuffed, not scuffed enough.  All this programme was proving so far was that he _really_ didn’t understand women.  No wonder he’d been single for so long.  Equally, some men just came across as complete Neanderthals, and still the women kept their lights on.  One talked about himself constantly, another admitting to bringing his washing home for his mother to do, something that didn’t seem to bother any of the girls because he was good looking enough to balance out the fact that he was clearly a hideous human being, incapable of looking after himself. 

The book, once clutched so tightly, had by now been completely discarded in favour of a glass of wine, his second.  He had found that after the first glass the bottle had been placed within easy reach by Camille.  She noticed triumphantly that with every sip he became more amenable to bad television.    

He was now leaning forward, more engrossed by the second, shaking his head.  “I will never understand women.”

She elbowed him in a friendly manner.  “You understand me.”

He gave her a bemused look.  “Camille, in all honesty I have absolutely no idea if you’d date someone like that in real life.” 

She gave a non committed shrug. “He’s not that bad.  I’ve had worse.” 

Richard choked on his wine.  “You know he’s the reason nice guys never get a look in.  You all seem to be dazzled by the big muscles, the bright smiles and the stylish outfits.  And even though you _know_ someone like that’s going to leave you at the first opportunity he gets, you still want to be with him...”

She giggled.  “Are you jealous?”

“Yes of course I’m jealous!”  He was also on the verge of being drunk.  “All the women I ever wanted always wanted someone like that instead.”  He was pointing at the TV.  “And you know what?  It would be almost statistically impossible for someone like me to get a date this way.  What would I say?”  He patted down his shirt self consciously pretending that he was in the studio surrounded by women.  “Hello, I’m Richard, I work for the police,” he started mimicking lights being turned out, “I just want to make the world a better place by catching the bad guys,” he imitated more lights going out, “I’m loyal, caring and I’d like to find a woman who doesn’t find the idea of having children with me totally disgusting.”  He turned his own final lights out and turned to Camille, shrugging, “and now I have no date.  Which just goes to show that nice guys definitely finish last.”

As if to prove his point an almost total blackout occurred when one man admitted to being a gentleman and liking romance.  Richard was practically jumping up and down on the sofa pointing at the television while Camille tried desperately to stifle her giggles. 

He was watching her and smiling, glad that he was able to make her laugh, thinking that he would never in a million years have predicted that such an intimate setting between them might have been possible.  One hand was clutching his glass, his other arm was bent up and back, his hand massaging his own shoulder. 

Her giggling stopped as she shifted closer to him.  “You have been reaching for your back all afternoon.”  He shook his head once to indicate that it didn’t matter and she pouted.  “Were the bags I made you carry very heavy?”

“Yes.”  She barked her laughter once at his honesty, but he stood his ground, refusing to look embarrassed.  She decided to take pity on him on this occasion and clicked her fingers, pointing at the floor. 

He feigned ignorance.  “I’m sorry, what am I mean to be looking at on the floor?”

She narrowed her eyes and pushed him off the sofa quickly relishing the small squeak of protest that he gave.  He was on the verge of a rant, it was his sofa after all, why did he have to be the one that got kicked off it?  But then she shifted her legs to either side of his body, her presence looming large behind him and pressed her thumb firmly against the back of his neck.  He reflexively pushed back into her, trying to relieve the pain that she had uncovered.

“Is it there?”

“No, more shoulders and lower back.”

“I can’t do your lower back here.”

“I know.”  He sighed and flexed his shoulders by way of asking her to continue.  Using slow, even strokes she went to work with the palms of her hands, running them over the ridge of his shoulders. 

“You are very tense...”

“Well, they were really very heavy bags.”  His breath hitched as she started to include her thumbs with her palms. 

“Too hard?”

“No.”

She had switched from using her hands to her arms, leaning over him from behind.  And suddenly, Richard was being treated to the most wonderful massage he had ever had.  One which had absolutely nothing to do with her hands and arms and everything to do with the rolling motion with which her breasts were now kneading his head.  His eyes closed with pleasure and he allowed his mind to go blank as Camille continued to talk.   

“Richard?  Are you even listening to me?”  The circular motion had stopped.  Richard began to focus again.  She had muted the TV. 

He hunched his shoulders at her, shrugging his annoyance at the fact she had stopped, that he still had knots that needed attending to.  She didn’t take the hint.

“Camille, please could you stop staring at my bald spot and give me a massage?”

“What?”

“My bald patch.  I can only assume that’s what’s distracted you into stopping...”

She only just contained the huff of annoyance from his incorrect assumption as she traced her finger around the coin sized space in his hair.  Ignoring the fact that he tried to shy away from her touch, she bent down and placed a kiss in his hair, thoughtful.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

He shrugged at a loss as to how to describe it to her.  “It’s...just my hair.”  He placed his hand over hers in an effort to get her to remove it from his head, “I’ve never had that much of it.” He failed to add that he’d also never been with anyone he’d wanted to impress so much before and his demonstrative lack of it wasn’t exactly working in his favour.

“It doesn’t bother me...”

“I know.”

“But...” she finished the sentence for him, “it still bothers you.”  He nodded.

Her hand left his hair as she slid to the floor next to him, all thoughts of a massage abandoned for now as she could see that his thoughts were still consumed by his vanity.

 “It’s just hair Richard.”

“And if it were your hair?”

She looked at him sternly.  “Would you leave me?  If my hair started falling out?”

“No!  Of course not!” Richard was running though some of the awful possibilities which would mean Camille might lose her hair. 

“So if you won’t leave me then why would I leave you?” 

“It’s just different Camille.  The older I get the more I lose.”

“So?”

“So, don’t you want to be with someone who still has all their hair?”  His thoughts drifted back to the Saturday night television that was still playing in the background and the men Camille had said she liked the look of.  They all had masses of hair, he thought bitterly. 

“You still have all of your hair, apart from this much,” she made a little circle with his thumb and first finger to symbolise his bald spot and he winced.  “I don’t understand you.  We spent all afternoon having fun didn’t we?”  He gave her a look to signify that in his opinion they certainly hadn’t spent _all_ afternoon having fun.  She sighed, “Fine, you got bolshie and threw a temper tantrum, but I thought you enjoyed spending time with me? 

He sighed.  “I did.” It was true, all those little kisses she had snuck on him, the ridiculous arguments she had used to try and persuade him why he needed new cushions that he had already resigned himself to getting, he had loved it.  He had thought he’d even been on the receiving end of a couple of envious glances from other men out with their girlfriends too and for the first time in a long time had felt pride in himself. 

 “But you were thinking about your hair?”

“No, of course I wasn’t...” he could see where she was going with this. 

“So why are you thinking about it now?”

“You’re the one who stopped what you were doing in order to stare at my bald spot!  I just wanted a massage and now I’m even more tense than before! 

He looked like he really didn’t want to have this conversation again, but knew she wouldn’t leave him alone until she was satisfied.  He took a deep breath.  “I’m just worried...you’ll go back, and I’ll carry on, same old me, putting my foot in it at every opportunity.  The office will probably think I was playing some sort of joke on them and you’ll be surrounded by...”  He raised his hands to his face his fingers rubbing his temples as he remembered the very real threat that Humphrey presented along with nearly every other male tourist visiting Saint Marie. 

Hey...”  She had moved closer, trying to ensure that she could look at him properly.  “Hey....”  She had no idea where his lack of confidence stemmed from, she couldn’t imagine his parents inflicting anything this deep rooted in him.  Perhaps friendships and past relationships had slowly worn down what little belief he had had in himself.  Either way, it had to stop.  “I won’t ever lie to you.  You know I won’t.”  He nodded, so full of trust and she regretted what she was about to do, feeling like she was about to destroy what little trust in her he had left.  “But you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”  His eyes widened with shock at the beginning of her pep talk. She tried not to notice. 

“Do you really think that after waiting a year to be with you I’d be so fickle throw it all away on some tourist fling, or my boss?”  He winced, and she realised how much her last comment had hurt him as she remembered he had once been her boss.  “Richard, Humphrey is everything you’re not.”  He gave her a look to say that he knew all this and she shook her head contemptuously at him, aggrieved that he still didn’t get it.  “He is scruffy and clumsy and incapable of looking after himself.  He’s like a child, a little boy.  And I don’t want a little boy.  I want a man!  I want someone with backbone, someone who’s not afraid to stand up to me!”  She caught his look and let out a bark of annoyance both at herself for choosing such bad descriptions and at him for not understanding.  “You’re missing the point!  I can’t be with someone like that.  Can you imagine how boring my life would be with someone that didn’t challenge me, someone that always said yes to me? 

“I. Have. Passion.  _We both_ have passion, although you seem to want to ignore yours.  And I like fighting with you.  If I fought with Humphrey, he’d probably let me hit him and then ask me if I wanted to do it again!”

He looked scandalised.  “I don’t want to hit you.  I’ve never wanted to hit you!”

“But you have a breaking point Richard, and you push back.”  She saw his look of horror and sighed.  “I’m not saying you would hit me, but if you thought you were right you would fight back and I love that about you.  I love it when you take control.  Humphrey’s scared of being alone, which is why he’s content to let me have my own way _all the time_.” 

He thought she was being a little too dismissive of Humphrey, after all he wasn’t the only one who knew what it was like to be miles from home with no friends.  “I’m scared of being alone too Camille.”

She smiled gently at him.  “No.  You’re scared of no one loving you for who you are.  You find it easier to avoid pain rather than expose yourself to the possibility of it.”  He took a sharp breath, uncomfortable that she could expose his flaws so easily, she continued quickly in an effort to spare his blushes.  “But you have me now.  And I need you just as much as you need me.” 

She looked for some sort of recognition in his face, her confidence beginning to falter a little.  “Don’t you think we work better together?  Don’t you miss me at work as well as here?”

He thought about it.  He did miss her.  He’d thought at the beginning that he’d missed her beauty, her vivaciousness, her kindness and her smile.  But it was more than that.  He’d missed her as his foil, missed her slotting so effortlessly into the parts of his personality that were lacking.  It was true that he was competent at his job, more than competent.  But he had achieved something with Camille that was now totally out of reach.  She had compassion, intuition where he did not, she inspired confidence, trust, where he represented the full weight of the law.  For everything he was not, there was Camille.                 

He reached for her, knew all that she had said was true.  Knew that he needed to address his own problems in his own time.  It would be easier now. 

He drew her into a kiss and mumbled an apology, keen to lighten the situation.   “But you still think I’m old and bald...”  She gave a muffled cry and beat her fists against his chest as he laughingly told her he was joking. 

She glared at him, “you really know how to ruin the moment don’t you.” 

He bit back another laugh and gave her the type of look that let her know that there hadn’t really been anything to ruin given that he was still exhausted from their last “moment” upstairs and kissed her again. 

Never one to shy away from a challenge she deepened their kiss and slid her leg over him so that she was straddling him.  Richard thought about protesting, of reiterating that nothing was going to happen for a while, but then took in his situation.  He was on the floor eating pizza and watching Saturday night television.  His only saving grace was Camille’s enthusiastic attempt to get him in to bed again.  As he felt the beginnings of arousal swirl through him he realised that as long as she wanted to try and seduce him, then he didn’t give a damn about anything else.


	11. Sunday Coffee

For the first time since he had left the island he felt at peace when he woke up.  There had been no alarm clock, just the gently awakening of consciousness: the cushioning of his pillow, the silk of her skin, the mass of her hair, the heat that radiated from her body as he realised that Camille was still entwined in his arms, her hand over his ensuring that he couldn’t leave her.     

He wanted to wake her.  Really wanted to wake her.  But thought he might be more in her good books if he actually got her some coffee.  He tried to remember if she had bought any yesterday.  There had been some instant in his cupboard he knew that, but it wasn’t very good.  Certainly not up to her expectations and not what he wanted to give her to put her in a good mood. 

A coffee shop?  There was one a couple of minutes walk away.  A decent one too if he remembered rightly.  It wouldn’t take longer than 5 minutes, providing there was no queue.  He checked his watch.  Well the queue was debatable at this time of the morning, mothers with buggies in all probability. He shuddered and the inevitable wailing he would have to endure.  But Camille’s need for coffee was greater than any annoyance he might feel at tripping over babies and bags.  He slid out of bed as quietly as he could, Camille murmuring as his hand left hers, and moved to the chair where he had placed his clothes the night before, Camille’s laughter at his fastidiousness still ringing in his ears. 

Last night’s shirt looked pretty creased but it would have to do – he couldn’t risk getting another one out of the cupboard.  His pocket notebook was on his dressing table and he silently ripped out a page, writing a brief note and leaving it on his pillow before gathering up his clothes to change on the landing. 

There had been rain in the night, small pools had formed at the base of the trees that lined his street, quickly soaking through the hard soil.  The pavement looked damp but no longer wet and Richard guessed that by the time he returned the sun would have gained enough strength to dry it out completely and burn off the clouds that still hung raggedly overhead.

The coffee shop, he was gratified to see, was artisanal enough to put off the majority of starbucks seeking parents.  There was still a queue, but he didn’t mind waiting in this environment: the dark wood, the quiet music, the delicious smell.  Not for the first time did he lament not liking coffee as much as he should.  He supposed he had been put off by too many cheap cups at three in the morning.  _What the hell_ though, he thought, he’d buy one for himself.  He’d only taste it on Camille anyway.

Paying, and only just managing to avoid being outraged at spending £7.50 on two cups of coffee, he stepped outside back in to the sunshine, feeling lighter and more in control of his life than he had done in a while.  Moving aside to let a couple of girlfriends walk by him he was rewarded with a smile.  He also thought that one of them checked him out, but it had been so long since that had happened that he instantly dismissed the interest in her eyes and the small curl of her lips.  He probably had some sort of stain on his shirt or something.  Women, and pretty ones at that, didn’t look at Richard Poole in that way.  They never had.  Except Camille. 

His pace quickened at the thought of Camille.  He wondered if she was awake, if she had found his note.  Rounding the corner his concentration was momentarily taken by an old couple ahead of him.They looked bizarrely like his parents. His train of thought meandered again.  He should probably call them.  He hadn’t spoken to them for a while.  He’d do it after Camille had left.  He was pretty sure that his mother had mentioned something about coming to London for the day anyway... 

The pieces fell into place instantly in his mind, a swear word tumbling from his lips as he started running. He got to the door just as it was closing, silently cursing the fact that he had ever given them a key.  He pushed it open roughly, hoping that he wasn’t about to hit one of them in the face.

He saw his mother’s look of surprise and fear before it relaxed into recognition.  “Richard!  How lovely, I thought you were at work today?”

“Mum!”  He kissed her quickly.  “No, I’ve taken a couple of days off.  I’m sorry I forgot you were coming...”  He was falsely jovial, trying to manoeuvre himself around his parents in order to further block their progress into his hall. 

“Oh, we won’t be in your hair for long, we just came by to get your father a drink before heading out...”  She took in his creased shirt, raising a hand to smooth his collar a gesture born of nearly four decades of worry and of care.  Tutting her disapproval she pushed her way past him again.  Richard resisted rolling his eyes and narrowly avoided tripping over Camille’s shoes which he then stood in front of, hoping that he was shielding them.  Wondering how the hell he could get rid of both of them, he was unaware that his father had been watching him with a gleam in his eye.    

“Is that coffee Richard?” 

He stared at the cups in his hands, wiling them somehow to disappear.  “Um...yes.”

“Two cups of coffee”?

Richard was beginning to wish that the ground would open up and swallow him up.  Or at least do the decent thing and swallow his parents up.

He was searching for an answer, knowing that nothing he could possibly say would be an adequate explanation.  “At the weekends I like to get two...it’s very good,” he finished lamely.  There was no way his father was going to believe that.  “But, I’d, um, be happy for you and mum to...”

“Emily, Richard’s brought us coffee!” 

“Lovely – thank you darling!”  His mother seemed to have forgotten that she’d had no idea they were coming. 

Richard winced at his parent’s booming voices.  The last thing he needed was for Camille to emerge from his bedroom wearing next to nothing asking what the hell was going on.  He risked a look up the stairs to check and when he turned back saw that his father had followed his gaze.

“Everything ok?”

“Yup, fine.”  He feigned nonchalance. 

His mother’s voice filtered through from the kitchen again.  “Oh dear Richard!  Your kitchen is filthy!”

He risked another look at his father, knowing that he knew.  He shot him a pleading look, imploring him to take his mother away before she started snooping.  He remembered the mess in his sitting room.  Wine glasses, cushions on the floor, the outer layers of Camille’s clothing strewn around the furniture.  He wanted them to meet her, but not like this.   

His father took the hint, raising an entertained eyebrow as he did so, clearly communicating his amusement at the situation and turned to follow his wife into the kitchen.  Richard could hear him take up the conversation as he surveyed the situation.

“Ah.  Yes this is a mess.”  A pause.  “Why don’t we go to a coffee shop?”  Richard could hear his mother start to bemoan the cost when a little work would ensure they could all sit together at his home when his father cut her off again.  “Richard’s treat.”

“But it’s such a shame...”

“Nonsense, it will be a lovely start to our day out, we could have a late breakfast...”  He hoped that it wouldn’t take too long for her to agree.  His diplomatic skills weren’t what they once were and he wasn’t sure what other tactics he could employ.  He held out his hand, and gave her a small little coaxing wink praying that she would take it.  She did and he smiled at her, grateful that she wasn’t going to argue over this.   

He led her back past Richard.  “Oh darling, it’s such a lovely thought.  Does Daddy know where we’re going?”

Richard nodded and started walking behind her, gently pushing her to the door.  His father paused before leaving and listened quickly to the simple directions. 

He smiled the Poole lop sided smile.  “You know, if you don’t turn up then I won’t be able to keep her there.  Not now she knows you aren’t at work.”

“I know.”

 A pause.  “Will you come on your own?”

Richard lowered his eyes and shrugged, too embarrassed to look his father in the face.  “I don’t know.  Its early days, so...”

“So, she might not want to meet your parents.” 

Richard nodded.  As his father started towards the door he realised how much his father had just achieved in 30 seconds and managed to mumble a curt, “thanks Dad.”

***

He raced up the stairs as soon as the door had closed.  “Camille?”

She was standing by his bedroom door in his old shirt and boxers and he couldn’t help but smile at the tableau she created and the fact that she must have panicked when she couldn’t find his clothes and gone through his wash basket.  He wondered cynically if she might now consider buying some pyjamas of her own...

“Are they gone?”  Clearly she had heard everything.

He nodded.  “I’m sorry, I forgot.  You arrived, and then my promotion and time off...I said they could use the house as a base.” He shrugged.  “I’m sorry.”  He finally remembered that he was still holding two cups.  “I got coffee.”  He hoped it would go some way to sooth her, before he dropped his next bombshell.

She took it gratefully, taking a large warm mouthful.  Her eyes closed in enjoyment and he could see her smile form around the plastic lid as the liquid hit her taste buds.  She looked at him fondly.  “Thank you.” It was said with feeling. 

As the coffee worked its magic she began to realise that he hadn’t touched his.  “Don’t you like it?”  She indicated the coffee.

He was trying to work out the best way to tell her that he didn’t want it because he was about to get a fresh one.  _Oh and by the way did she want to come with him to meet his parents for the first time?_   He could hear it in his head and knew it sounded ridiculous. 

“Richard?”

“I have to go out...”

“Oh.”  She looked disappointed for an instant then covered it with a smile.  “Can I come too?”  She caught his look and took the hint.  “Oh.  It’s fine.  I don’t have to come...”

“No, it’s...”  He took a deep breath.  “My parents, they haven’t exactly left.  They’re just...around the corner.  I have to have breakfast with them.”

“Oh.”  Then, “did they leave because of me?”

He was weaving his head, trying to be tactful and failed.  “Sort of.  Dad managed to get mum out before she snooped too much.  Otherwise she probably would have come up to introduce herself!”  He pulled a stupid face, gave a fake bark of laughter, saw that Camille wasn’t playing along so stopped.

“But you don’t want me to come...”

He realised what he’d done.  “Of course I want you to come!  But, I don’t want you to feel like you have to.  Mum doesn’t know and Dad won’t mind.  We can do it another time.”  He thought about making a grab for her hand, to show her how sincere he was, but his arms seemed to be stuck by his side, completely inert and independent of his brain. 

 “But your mother will find out that I was here and think I didn’t want to meet her...”  She was at her suitcase, decision already made, throwing clothes aside in search of a perfect outfit.  “Why do I not have anything to wear!”  Richard had no answer.  Anything would have been suitable for her to wear, but he didn’t dare tell her that.  Instead he backed away, taking refuge on the staircase, cold cup of coffee still in hand listening to the clattering of her getting ready. 


	12. Sunday Coffee II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it seems to be the day for posting! Thank you all so much for your reviews - it is so lovely to get them!

They were late.  They were late because just as Camille was shouting from the bathroom that she was ready, Richard realised that he was sitting on the stairs in yesterday’s clothes.  Leaving her at the front door and berating himself for being an idiot, he ran back upstairs again, throwing his cupboard open and grabbing fresh clothes.  They almost ran to the coffee shop, Camille stopping outside and pulling him up shortly alongside her 

“Do I look ok?”  She was giving him the type of look that said she needed a bit of reassurance, that he perhaps should have already commented on the way she looked.

“Fine.”  Her look turned to one of nervousness and he adjusted his last statement. “Beautiful.  They’ll love you.”  She smiled at him and his heart juddered from nerves as he turned to hold the door open for her.  Spotting his parents in the corner he raised a hand to his father in greeting and led her over.  

“Hello darling.”

He nodded his greeting again then launched straight into introductions.  “Mum.  Dad.  Um, this is Camille.”  He watched them carefully for any sign of shock but there was nothing.  His mother still looked oblivious to the fact that Camille might have anything to do with her son’s current happiness and his father stood, holding out his hand.

“Camille.  David.”

Camille took it gratefully.  “Hello David.”  His father raised his eyebrows in surprise at her accent but said nothing as his mother also stretched out her hand. 

They settled at the table with minimal fuss, David watching with interest as Richard pulled out Camille’s chair and she batted his hand away.  The waitress came and took drinks orders.  Camille fidgeted. 

“So Camille, what do you do?”

“I work on Saint Marie, I’m a Detective Sergeant with the police.”

Emily couldn’t help herself.  “Oh you’re that Camille...”  Camille looked at her surprised and she apologised.  “Oh dear, I’m sorry.  It’s just that Richard’s mentioned you a few times.  It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”  Camille smiled as she continued.  “And what are you doing over here?”  Clearly Richard’s mother was slightly slow on the uptake.  Richard took a deep breath then shot a look at his father, who rolled his eyes in response. 

“I just came over for a holiday,” she clarified, “to see Richard.” 

“And where are you staying.”  This was too much for Richard, he turned to Camille. 

“Do you want to go and find the waitress, I think we’re ready to order...” the last thing he wanted was for Camille to be present as he tried to explain their relationship to his parents. 

She didn’t take the bait, she couldn’t understand why it might be embarrassing for him.  “No I’m fine.  I haven’t even looked at the menu yet.”  His father was positively beaming at her, relishing both Richard’s embarrassment and Camille’s stand against him. Camille decided to take the bull by the horns.  “I’m staying with Richard. 

His mother’s confusion was apparently complete.  “But Richard only has one bedroom.”

“Yes...”  Richard was barely restraining himself from banging his head against the table as she reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. 

David finally came to the rescue trying and almost failing to contain his laughter as his son’s discomfort.  “I think what Camille’s trying to tell you darling is that she and Richard are an item.”

Emily’s hand flew to her cheeks in embarrassment.  “Oh I’m so sorry, what an idiot!  That was so slow of me.”  She was laughing at herself gently.  “And you’re a detective.  Gosh, it doesn’t speak very highly of my intelligence does it?”  She felt she needed to explain, “you see, it’s just that you work with Richard, and he’s always been so particular about relationships at work.”  She placed a hand on Camille’s arm.  “It’s so lovely to meet you.”

Camille grinned and nodded then snuck a look a Richard who looked as though he wanted to die of embarrassment. 

“How long have you been together?”

She decided to spare Richard’s blushes, and rather than explaining that she arrived two days ago to seduce him which thankfully proved successful, she simply said shyly, “a couple of months ago.”

It seems that Richard’s mother was now not as slow as she had originally appeared.  “Oh, so you got together when he left.  How romantic!”  Camille giggled as she saw Richard’s pain deepen in her peripheral vision. 

“And you have a whole week together, have you been to London before?”

“I have, but I’m usually more central.  And I haven’t been a tourist here for about ten years.”

“Well, you must get Richard to show you around, he knows so much about London, he loves his history.”

She nodded her agreement unsure how to explain that she was leaving tomorrow.  Richard took over, he could afford to be blunter than her.  “Camille’s leaving tomorrow mum.”

“Oh that’s sad.  But did you take her to see some lovely places?”

“Um, not really, she arrived on Thursday night.”

“You came all that way for three days?”  She looked stumped that anyone would do that for her son then realised how precious their time was, how much of it they were taking up.  “Oh!  This is your last day!  I’m so sorry.”  She turned to her husband insinuating very obviously that they should leave. 

Camille answered before he could.  “Oh no, please stay.  It’s so lovely to meet you both, Richard is impossible to get to talk about anything personal.”  She was sincere and before any of them could disagree she managed to call a waitress over.    

“I thought you said you weren’t ready to order,” Richard was clearly feeling a little put out by her last comment, even more so by the fact that they had just been offered a get out clause and she had refused to take it.  She shot him a look designed to put him back in his place.  “I’m sure we can choose quickly...”  David reached for the menu immediately, if she spoke to Richard like that then he certainly didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it either.

***

Breakfast, apart from the initial hurdle of embarrassment, had to Richard’s amazement not actually been that bad.  Camille and his mother had got on like a house of fire.  Both he and his father had been sidelined from the beginning, Richard only seeking to wade in when some hideousness from his childhood threatened to be revealed.    The silence that had initially settled on them had been awkward, but it gradually lifted, allowing them to bond over raised eyebrows and incredulous shakes of the head pertinent to the women in their lives 

His mother seemed overly interested in Saint Marie, drinking in the details, the station and their colleagues, something that she’d always lamented that Richard had glossed over, thinking it inconsequential to the work he was achieving.  “It sounds so beautiful Camille, Richard’s never really elaborated on anything, other than at the beginning when all he could do was whine about it...”  Camille laughed and Richard rolled his eyes. 

“Well you must come and visit, my mother would be so excited to have you to stay.”  Richard was on the verge of asking if this was the same mother who knew nothing of their relationship, so she kicked him under the table.  He huffed and turned away to find his father looking equally left out. 

“We’d love to,” she looked over to David, “wouldn’t we David?”  David looked uncomfortable, the heat wasn’t something that had ever agreed with him, and imagining the half dressed population of a Caribbean island made him feel even more lacklustre about going. 

Richard tried to surreptitiously look at his watch, but the action was seen by all three, Camille shooting him a look that let him know in no uncertain terms that he was being rude.  However it did have the effect of hurrying his mother up when she copied his action.

“Oh my goodness, we have to go.  We’re meant to be meeting friends for lunch in central London.  I don’t think I’ll be able to eat another bite!”

“Go mum, I’ll sort the bill out.”  He received another chastising look from Camille at his persistence in trying to get rid of them and he showed her his upturned palms by way of response to tell her that he was trying to help. 

The goodbyes took a little longer than she had anticipated.  Richard’s mother was clearly having difficulty letting Camille go when there was still so much more to be discussed. 

During the interim David pulled his son to one side.  They had never been easy with each other.  “She’s charming Richard.”

He looked embarrassed at the compliment, amazed that for the first time his father actually seemed pleased by something that he had achieved.  But nodded his agreement, shaking his hand briefly before kissing his mother quickly. 

They settled themselves back down on the banquette, side by side but turned in towards each other.  He laid his hand out for her, palm up and she smiled at him, running her fingers over his, feeling the ridges that lined his skin, relieved that they could be themselves again.  He hadn‘t really been aware of how nervous she had been, worried that she was disappointing him in some way but he gradually felt her relaxing again and realised for the first time that the past hour had actually mattered to her.    

“How did I do?”  He smiled shyly, nodding his approval and she leant into him, resting her head against his jaw.  “Do you think they liked me?” 

Richard couldn’t imagine anyone not liking her, but couldn’t bring himself to say as much so nodded again and said, “Definitely.”

***

They paused to watch them through the coffee shop window, Camille’s hand in his, their relaxed body language, his smile. 

Emily took her husband’s hand.  “He looks happy.”

“He is happy.”

She studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing, finally realising her husband’s part in getting her out of Richard’s house.  “How did you know?”

He shrugged.  “Yesterday’s shirt, two coffees and a pair of women’s heels by the staircase?  It’s not the hardest case I’ve ever cracked darling...”

He looked so pleased with himself that she decided that a little teasing was in order.  “Oh you are so very clever my love...”

He laughed as they rounded the corner back to their car together, privately thinking that on their next trip to London they would have to remember to ring their son’s doorbell. 


	13. Sunday Evening

Pressing herself into him she tried to motivate herself enough to leave the warmth of his bed, of him.  He responded by holding her tighter, closer.  She murmured “I need to pack,” then caught his look and kissed him with feeling, “don’t pout.” 

He adjusted his face accordingly but didn't lessen his grip.  It seemed so final. 

He watched as she left his bed, putting on his clothes as she set to work, his face blank.  A mask to his feelings.  He sat there for a moment then he too left the bed, heading anywhere except his bedroom.  It was partly because it was painful watching her pack so badly, partly because he didn't think he could stop himself from pouting for much longer.  Completely bewildered by the fact that she was clearly incapable of folding anything properly he only narrowly avoided asking her if she wanted him to do it for her.  She would probably have taken that as a sign that he was trying to hurry her departure.  Instead he headed for the bathroom.

Adjusting the head of his shower he let the water pummel his head and shoulders, trying to drum out the dejection that was suddenly overwhelming him.  He leant his head against the tiles in front of him expecting them to be cold against his forehead, to try and clear his head but even that let him down.  Drying himself quickly and wrapping a towel around his waist he casually turned his head and caught a glance of Camille through his open bedroom door.  In the second that he saw her, he saw his balled shirt in her hands, her head bowed, shoulders slumped, the material pressed to her face.  Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be breathing it in.  He felt a wrenching in his gut and wanted to go to her but was too embarrassed and confused by her actions to move his feet in her direction.  Instead he took an involuntary step back into the muggy bathroom seeing her sigh and place the shirt gently in his wash basket again.

Her foresight in booking her tickets had ensured that she was on the earliest flight, timed to be back on Saint Marie and at her desk on Monday morning.  They had eaten a sombre last dinner together, fraught and tense with the knowledge that everything would change when they were apart again, that they would have to fight to stay together, to keep their relationship on track.  They were struggling to keep the conversation flowing, each lost in their own thoughts, Richard silently worrying if the lack of it meant that they had already run out of things to say to one another. 

“Richard?”  He nodded to show that he was listening.  “We’ll be alright.”

“I know.”  He was defensive, showing false bravado in a sentiment he didn't quite believe in.

“We can Skype and call.”

“I know.”  His tone told her to leave it.  She moved to sit next to him.  “I just need to know that you're okay.”  He looked at her eyes pleading not to have this particular conversation.  “I'm fine.”  It came out at not much more than a whisper.  She realised that that was all she was going to get out of him, that he was already preparing himself for their goodbye, wrapping his emotions up tightly in lead, impervious to anything threatening to break them free again, especially her. 

They washed up together silently, with Richard thinking wryly of how they were already erasing all trace of her existence.  Come tomorrow, all that would be left of her would be a couple of new cushions, a rug and two new blankets, not exactly the tangible memories he'd been hoping for.

Curling up on the sofa together, Richard wished that they could forego their routine established over the past few days and just go to bed.  He had his arm around her, her knees pulled up into the side of his lap.  He sensed a certain reticence coming from her and turning to face her he found her eyes already trained on him.

She began haltingly.  “I was wondering if it would be ok to leave some things here?  I don't have that much, but I thought toothbrush, shampoos, makeup, that sort of thing?  I can always buy more.”  It was the first time he'd smiled a genuine smile at her all evening.  “And it might save time coming back if I don't have to bring them.  I can just bring hand luggage.”  Richard smirked at the idea of Camille stuffing all the clothes she needed for a week in hand luggage, the size of her current bag attesting to that fact.

He was nodding all the same, delighted to be finally being left with something that actually belonged to her, something she could come back for, something he could get angry about when it cluttered up his bathroom, his drawers.  He couldn’t think, all he managed to say was a bland, “that's fine.”

But she hadn't finished yet.  She had realised when she had felt the cotton of his shirt against her skin that she wouldn't just miss him but she would also miss his clothes, his books, his meticulous order.  It sounded stupid, but there is was.  She would.  His neatly folded trousers, his shoes next to hers, his shirts, unbuttoned in the wash basket, spread out like an enormous bird watching over his other laundry.

“And if you wanted to give me some things to take back then that would be fine too, you know for when you come over….”  He gave her a look to indicate she should elaborate.  “You know, toiletries...maybe some clothes if you wanted.”  He thought he was beginning to see where she was going with this but then couldn't understand why she would want what she was asking for.  “Maybe some trousers, some shirts…”

“Some shorts?”

She looked delighted.  “You have shorts?”

“I might have _a_ pair of shorts, I'm not sure if they fit me anymore, I haven't worn them for about 10 years.”  _10 years_ he thought.  _God he was old.  Had it really been so long since he'd last had a proper holiday?  No wonder he was so white.  And stressed._ He wondered for the millionth time what she saw in him. 

“Do you have anything to go with your shorts?  Like t shirts...”  She gave him a hopeful look. 

“I thought we'd already established that you have my one and only t shirt.”  Her top lip curled in annoyance.  “I doubt I have anything else that's going to be remotely useful to you but if you want to take a look, you can.” 

She smiled her gratitude at him, deciding to leave it a few moments before she ran up to his cupboards, not realising that all Richard wanted to do was to go to bed, and getting Camille into his bedroom, even if it was to look at clothes was one step closer to achieving his goal than they were currently at.  When she couldn't wait any longer she made her excuses for the bathroom, detouring to the stairs, creeping silently up them, making sure to avoid the squeak on the third step.  By the time Richard finally realised what she was doing she was almost finished. 

With a sigh he surveyed the chaos that she had created, cupboard doors and drawers open, clothing scattered on the bed that he had so hoped to have been in by now.

She fixed him with an annoyed glare.  “You hardly have anything that's suitable.”  He shrugged, he had tried to tell her as much. “But the good news is that I found them.”  She tossed his shorts towards him indicating that he needed to try them on.  He did so quickly, amazed that they did still fit.  She smiled at him fondly; she really should have know they were going to be the shorter version of chinos, neatly pressed and navy blue, finishing above the knee.  She tried vaguely to picture him in something more modern and failed miserably, then realised she didn't want him in anything more modern, they would have completely undermined his character. And these shorts suited him.  Nodding her approval she threw them on top of her bag.  He noticed that they had joined a couple of shirts she had already pulled out. 

“Can I not be trusted to pick out my own shirts Camille?”

She shrugged, fingering his lapel.  “I can swap it for this one if you like…” Her fingers were undoing the buttons.  His fingers stopped hers halfway down. 

“This one?”  And there it was.  The question he thought she’d been aiming for all evening.  His eyes searched her face trying to discern any hint of teasing. There was none.  She nodded shyly and his fingers released hers allowing them to continue to the end of the placket.  She pushed it from his shoulders and it landed on the bed behind her.  He half expected her to scrunch it up and throw it in her case, but instead she laid it out, folding it as best she could when all the buttons were undone.  Finishing, she laid it in the top of her case, smoothing the material gently to ensure that as few a creases as possible marked the shirt when it arrived in Saint Marie, weighing them down with his shorts and other shirts to ensure that it didn't move when the bag was in the hold. 

Feeling his arms around her, his lips resting against her neck, she turned into him, looping her arms around his bare waist, burying her face in his shoulder and sighing. 

Their lovemaking that evening had been gentle but poignant, with neither being able to shake the realisation that it was their last time, that two whole months stretched out endlessly ahead of them before they could be together again.  He had spent the final moments before falling asleep ensuring that he could never forget her, just in case she decided when she got back that her time in London had been a pleasant one but not one she wanted to repeat.  His last thoughts before losing conscious though were of the more mundane. 

Had they booked the taxi?

What toiletries to give her?

***

The alarm woke them at 4am.  A shrill ugly noise that spelled both the coming dawn and a bleak ending to her brief visit.  He took five minutes to hold her to him tightly, then swung his legs out of bed, switching the bedside light on, smiling slightly when he heard her grunt of annoyance at the light blinding her.  Remembering his thoughts from the night before he padded into the bathroom.  Shaving quickly and brushing his teeth he put a small selection of things into his wash bag: razor, shaving foam, shaving balm, shampoo and a toothbrush, making a mental note to buy replacements later that day.  Everything else could be bought out there. 

They dressed together in silence, Richard carrying her bag downstairs, depositing it by the front door in the gloom and stillness of the hall.   Following her into the kitchen he took into account the lights that clashed horribly with the blackness outside his window, her skin which looked sallow after so little sleep and an early wake up call and shook his head declining her offer of tea as she made herself a coffee.  The kettle hissed and spat its steam out at them, breaking the monotonous silence that had settled on them shrouding them like fog.  There was no touching between them now, he couldn’t bring himself to draw out the agony of holding her only to lose her so quickly, instead he consoled himself by watching her hug her mug of coffee, staring at the blank space of wall ahead of her, lost in her own thoughts. 

“Are you going to be ok getting back?”  It was too early for him not to be more explicit with his questioning.  “With Humphrey I mean.” 

Her frown cleared and she nodded.  “I think so.”  He nodded back at her.  “And you'll call me when you land?”

The shrill of the doorbell interrupted whatever answer she had been planning to give as she looked at him quickly, trying to rally him with a smile when she saw his face fall. 

They stood on the pavement, each for the first time since her arrival completely unsure of how to react to the other.  Safe from the taxi drivers prying eyes as he was now in the cab, he pulled her into an initially awkward hug, kissing her with meaning, holding her one last time, regretting their mutual decision that he shouldn't accompany her to the airport.  She leant against his chest and he placed another kiss on her forehead, her arms tightening around his waist as he did so. 

“We'll be ok.”  

He wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question but he nodded.  He also wasn't sure if he believed it. 

He kissed her once more, loathed to let her leave, cupping her face gently, rubbing his thumb against her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin before pulling away, his half smile registering false.  Indicating with his head that she should get into the taxi, he opened the door for her, thinking bleakly that his chivalrous gesture was actually hastening her departure.  

The taxi pulled away into the gloom of the early morn and Richard found himself in the middle of the road, hand half raised in farewell barely able to make out her face against the rear windshield of the car.

She rounded the corner, then was gone.


	14. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments. Sorry its a bit of a filler chapter, at least it feels like a filler!

He was tired.  Exhausted.  He had thought about sleeping, but knew that if he had climbed into bed, their bed, with its creased sheets and the crumpled duvet cover, he wouldn’t have made it out again.  Instead he bent down and almost lovingly straightened the covers, puffing up her pillows, being rewarded by the smallest of hints of her perfume as he did so.  He took a step back almost in fear, as if the bed would draw him in against his better judgement. 

He had napped on the sofa instead, using her cushions and her blanket.  Closing his eyes, he found that sleep evaded him and he chased it blindly for a while before slipping, exhausted into blackness.  His dreams were fractured; all encompassing and empty in turn and he woke suddenly, his breath catching in his throat, his legs caught in the material, heat pricking his skin uncomfortably, trying desperately to cling on to the last image of her.  Eyes still bleary with sleep, he brought his wrist up to his face.  Blinking frantically to try and clear his vision, he realised that he’d been asleep for little more than an hour.  But it was too late to try and settle again. 

Rising, he decided that it was no longer too early for his cup of tea.  Switching on lights as he went it struck him how deathly silent everything still was.  Flicking the switch on his kettle, he moved to his radio, needing and hoping for the soothing tones of strings, of arias, of the reassuring soft seriousness of the morning’s headlines and thoughtful discussion.  But instead his ears were assaulted with modern music.  Popular music.   He winced, moving to turn it down, to stop the racket before his ears started to bleed. 

_Bloody woman,_ he thought, fishing out his phone from his pocked, typing quickly, accusingly.    

_You changed my radio stations._

The reply came like lightening, almost as if she had been waiting for his text. 

_Humour me._

The reply that she got consisted of so many question marks and exclamation marks that she couldn’t help but laugh: clutching her phone tightly to her chest. 

He had tried.  He really had.  But the songs they played had been so damnably awful that he had turned it off, preferring the silence of the kitchen.  Retreating again to his bedroom, he put his suit on; an early start was more enticing than his empty house.

And so he had left for work, annoyed rather than downcast, which had been her plan anyway.   

***

Work that day hadn’t seemed so different to the last time he had been in on Friday.  Meetings still needed to be attended and the paperwork still needed filling out and filing.  It was all paperwork now.  It was so rare that he ever got anything that he could get his teeth into.  He supposed it would only get worse.  But today of all days he needed something to take his mind off the emptiness of the house he was going back to.  And there was nothing.  The tapping of keys, the bleached office lights, the buzz of telephones and the hum of conversations, it was all background noise and only served to highlight his lack of work.  She was always there, and she always would be, most of the day and all of the night.  Inescapable. 

He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice though.  He had waited all day in vain for her to call him, but all he could ascertain from this was that she was probably doing the same.  He had therefore barely made it through the door before he had pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

He listened to it ring as he lowered himself on the sofa, taking comfort in the bounce of her cushions, deftly undoing his tie and top button, awkwardly shrugging off his jacket, feeling instinctively that she would prefer it. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier.  Did you have a good flight?”

“Yes.”  Her answers were terse, short.  He wondered if he was being paranoid, if he’d just made up their entire weekend.  “I’m still in the office.”

“Oh.”  His understanding came with relief.  He could hear her thanking someone and bristled unintentionally.  “Is that him?” 

“Yes.”

“Is everything ok?” 

“Fine.”

“OK... Should I call you later?”

“Yes.  Thanks.”  She hung up without waiting to hear his farewell. 

He sat there in silence.  Confused.  She had been totally indifferent.  He wondered why she had kicked up such a fuss last time when he had failed to call for a week if she cared so little this time.  The entire call had been so ambiguous that he doubted whether ever Dwayne had realised it was a non work related call.  And she had asked him to call her again.  Why couldn’t she call him?  He wondered if she was playing games with him. 

He hated games, never understood why women wanted to play them, what the point of them was.  And he didn’t even know when he should call her back?  30 minutes?  An hour?  Two?  He contemplated the late evening now stretching uninvitingly ahead of him, of how much he wanted to go to bed.  He could easily have stayed at work for longer, could have put some extra hours in, but he had already done a 13 hour shift in order to avoid the loneliness that now engulfed his house.   

Not sure what to do with himself, he pulled a book towards him.  The words passed before his eyes, but his brain refused to process any of the sentences on the page before him.  After the fourth attempt at reading the same page, he gave up, tossing the book on to the sofa next to him, reaching for the TV remote.  But there was nothing to hold his attention there either.  He quickly scanned though the channels, becoming more frustrated with the choice that was offered to him.  Everything was now geared towards the lowest common denominator, he thought patronisingly.  He wondered if he should get rid of the damn thing and forsake his licence fee.  He never watched it anyway.  He turned it off again and lay back on the sofa, his head finding the same cushion from that morning.  He stared blindly at the ceiling, mapping out the shadows, willing his mind to relax a little, to calm down.  

He didn’t have to wait long. 

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry baby.”  Her tone was genuine, and Richard despite her using that ridiculous nickname, gave an inward sigh of relief.  At least he still had a nickname.  “Richard?  Are you there?”  He realised he hadn’t replied.

“Yes.”      

“Are you ok?” 

“Yes.  Fine.” 

“Were you worried?”  _How did she do that?_  

He lied.  “No.  You were at work.” 

“I know, but I practically hung up on you!” 

He shrugged to tell her it didn’t matter, then shook his head at his stupidity.  “So, how was your flight?” 

“I don’t remember.  I slept for most of it.  I must have got less sleep than I thought when I was with you.”  He chuckled gently but could feel the heat of embarrassment prickle his cheeks and he said nothing, not trusting his voice not to betray him.  “Aren’t you tired?” 

“I’ll survive.”  She rolled her eyes as he avoided her question, annoyed that once again he seemed incapable of expressing his feelings outside of the mundane and every day.  “How’s work?”

She gave a little strangled cry of annoyance.  “Awkward.  He tried to apologise, I told him he didn’t need to.”  She heard him a disguised splutter on the end of the line.  “Richard, I need to work with him.  And he’s my boss.  I can’t have him feeling guilty for the rest of our working relationship.  Anyway, no one else knows about it so it’s easier to get back to how it was.  And he’s over it now, we can be friends.”  Richard raised an eyebrow at that.  He doubted very much that Humphrey was over it or that he wanted to just be friends with her.  She sensed his impending disagreement and changed the subject quickly to avoid an argument.  “Did you like my leaving present?” she asked teasingly.

“It’s hardly a present Camille.”  She smiled broadly.  “But on the plus side I now know what Beyonce sounds like.”

“And...?”

“I can’t say I’m a fan.”  He blushed again as he spoke, grateful for his solitude, imagining the hip jiggling and swivelling that hearing the song for the first time had brought to mind.  He briefly remembered that he used to dance.  Before.  But it was a long time ago.  And now?  He could never dance to something so overtly sexual.

“And the rest of it?”

“Honestly?  It’s just noise Camille.”  She rolled her eyes at that.  It was so typical of him not to even want to try.  She had listened to his music.  All she wanted was for him to understand hers.  He sensed her annoyance and moved to placate her, “but there are some songs...” 

She held her breath waiting for him to continue.  He was trying to think of a way to tell her that they had made missing her even more unbearable than normal.  That the lyrics had evoked memories of her that he had been trying to forget, at least for the foreseeable future until he could have her in his arms again.  He realised that he hadn’t yet answered, “just...they’re not bad.” 

“Are you saying you like my music Richard?”  She was teasing again. 

“No.  Just, some aren’t...bad.”  A smile broke across her face as she realised that he was trying, making an effort for her.  “Given that you’re making me listen to your music should I be sending you some CDs of mine then?”

“CD’s?”  

He realised his mistake too late and lost some of his confidence with her mocking.  “There’s no need to make me feel quite so old Camille.” 

“But if I make you feel old then I’m less likely to lose you to another woman while I’m gone.”

She was laughing as he scoffed.  “I’m not sure you have anything to worry about regardless of how old I feel.”  She didn’t reply but he could still hear her laughing.  “And what about you?  Do I trust you despite working alongside a very obvious admirer?”

“Oh you don’t need to worry about me.  I’ve got so much paperwork to catch up on, there won’t be time for what you’re thinking of.”  _Thank goodness for that,_ he thought.  She gave a heavy sigh, thinking of work.  “How do you do it?” 

He laughed and there was a pause in their conversation.  “No seriously, how do you do it?  Do you have any time saving tips for me?  I should still be in the office...”

“It’s just hard graft Camille...”

“You would say that.”

“What’s that meant to mean?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever taken a short cut in your life.”

“I have!” he protested.    

“Really?  What?”  Richard’s memory failed him, leaving his defences wide open for Camille who gave a triumphant laugh changing the subject in order to allow him to save some face.  “How was your day?” 

He sighed, “Slow.  Lots of the aforementioned paperwork.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be, it’s your fault.  Not only was it slow but I felt like I’ve been in a zoo all day.  It seems that I’m now under scrutiny from every man and woman I’ve ever worked with.  I had people coming into my office asking me the most inane questions, and all they wanted to do was look around.  Like I’m going to have a photo of you up in there or something.  They’re like vultures, picking through the remains of my emotions.”

“So you don’t have a photo of me in your office?”  

He sighed.  “Given that you left this morning.  Even if I wanted one, with the best will in the world there is no way that I’d be able to print it and frame it and put it there. 

“Even if you wanted one?”  She was becoming argumentative.

“That’s not what I meant.  It’s just...it’s the office.  I need to work.  And I can’t work if I have a picture of you smiling up at me.”  He also didn’t want to remind his team of what she looked like.  He knew that someone like Nathan Jones would try and use it against him, to taunt him with insinuations. 

“Do I distract you that much?”

“I said it was a slow day didn’t I?”

She huffed her approval, then paused and Richard got the distinct feel that it was a guilty pause.  “You know I can’t talk for long, I have to see Maman.”

“Oh?”

“I need to tell her where I’ve been...”

“And where might that have been?”

He was right, it had been a guilty pause, and there was another one.  “I don’t know.  I was thinking maybe I went to Guadeloupe for the weekend?  To see a friend.  Is that ok?” 

“Of course.”  His tone gave nothing away. 

“I will tell her.  But I was wondering if we could wait until you’re here.  Then we can tell her together?”

 “OK.”  She couldn’t work out why he hadn’t queried her on this, if it was because he didn’t care or because he didn’t mind.  She ploughed on regardless. 

“I think I should tell her about moving at the same time.  Because if I don’t and she knows about us, she’ll keep lecturing me on long distance relationships not working.  If we tell her about us, then about moving, at least she’ll understand.  She’ll know it’s serious.  Is that ok?”

Any additional time without Catherine’s knowledge seemed perfectly fine with him.  In fact, the idea that his girlfriend’s mother might know what he had been doing with her daughter caused a little shudder to travel through him.  He was nodding, oblivious to the fact that she couldn’t see him.  She knew what it was that had caught his attention.  “Our long distance relationship is fine Richard.”  It was said with a smile of reassurance. 

“I should hope so, it’s only just started.”  But his initial annoyance had been pacified somewhat by the fact that she had described them as serious. 

She took a deep breath and tried to quell the need to call him a pedantic imbecile, and instead settled for, “I’ll try and call you later ok?”

“Ok.”   

“I miss you.”

“You saw me this morning Camille.” 

She smiled.  It was all she could do in light of his inability to express his emotion s, “Goodbye Richard.”

“Goodbye Camille.” 

Hanging up he knew he wouldn’t talk to her again, it was bedtime, and he was exhausted. 


	15. Another Hurricane

The package that had arrived in the post the following week had given him a feeling of excitement that he hadn’t experienced in a long time.  He never received packages, especially ones that hadn’t been sent by his parents.  He caressed his thumb over the address once, imagining her hand as she had written it, feeling the rough brown paper under his fingertips.  He wondered what the hell she could possibly have sent him as he used the open blade of a pair of scissors to slice his way through the sellotape.  Reading the card did not enlighten him:

“For your office.”  

He frowned, then opened the box inside, letting out a burst of laughter as he did so. 

It was the picture she had taken of the two of them in bed together, rumpled, tired and happy.  His laughter morphed into a chuckle, imagining the faces of his team if he had it propped up on his desk.  _‘boring old Richard Poole,’_ he could almost hear them saying, _‘a naked picture on his desk?  I don’t believe it.’_   Well he wasn’t quite naked, but that didn’t matter.  He could still rock the boat a little. 

Casting a look around his office and out into the bullpen to make sure the coast was clear he took the photo frame out of its box and stood it in the centre of his desk, moving back to take a photo with his phone.  He was in the middle of sending it to her when there was a knock and Lauren poked her head around his door just in time to see him grinning broadly.  Richard made a dive for the frame, knocking it over in his haste to get to it, fumbling as it fell on to his desk and cramming it back in to its box. 

She looked bemused by his Olympic performance in clumsiness, “everything ok Sir?” 

“Yes.  Yes.  Everything’s fine.  What can I help you with?” 

“Just to let you know that the tests have come back on the lamp base.  It’s a match.  The lab wants to speak to you.” 

“Yes!”  Richard did a double mini fist pump in triumph.  “Thank you.” 

She nodded in reply to his appreciation.  “Um, Sir?”  She took in Camille’s card on the desk, the photo that was still lighting up Richard’s phone.  “It’s a sweet photo.”  He followed her eye line and went puce when he realised his mistake, all trace of his jubilation vanishing in an instant.  She smiled reassuringly at him, “don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” finishing cheekily, “I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.” 

She had left quickly, leaving behind a hand planted across his forehead, covering half a face frozen in embarrassment.  He wasn’t sure if he believed her, why wouldn’t she tell everyone?  And how would he ever be able to face his team again if she did.  And what reputation?  He only had time for these three thoughts before he saw his phone light up with an incoming message from Camille telling him not to tempt fate. 

***

“But you’re ok?”  It had been the tenth time he had tried to call that day, the phone line had been down and he had breathed a sigh of relief at hearing the ring tone as his call finally connected. 

“Richard, I’m fine.  How many times do I have to tell you?” 

“You’ve just been in a hurricane.  I want to make sure you’re ok!”

She found his clucking over her sweet and but a little hypocritical, given that when he had been in one, safety had been ignored, the case was all that had mattered.  But when she was in one, he was frantic when he hadn’t been able to get through to her, even when he knew that she was tucked up safely at home.  “It wasn’t even as bad as the one you were in!  We were fine – the electricity was barely even off.” 

“You weren’t, um,” he wasn’t sure how to put it, “you weren’t with him were you?”

She smiled at his jealousy.  “Humphrey?  No.  Humphrey actually listens to our advice.  When we say it’s too dangerous to work, he tells us to go home...”  She left the end of the sentence open, hoping that it would sink in for him.  “I had Maman with me.  I thought it would be nice to spend some time together.”  Richard thought it bizarre that she would take the opportunity a hurricane presented to spend quality time with her mother.  “For your information it was horrible.”  He waited for her to continue, had a feeling he knew where it was going – he was right.  “She decided to use our time together to push a few points home.  Apparently, time is ticking for me.  I only have so many eggs left and I need to hurry up if I don’t want to end up old and alone.”  Richard laughed and she added her own to his, aware of the irony of their situation.  After a moment she said, “you know, this is the moment that you contradict me, when you say ‘don’t worry, you’re not going to end up old and alone, you have plenty of eggs left.’  Stuff like that...?”

“Sorry...um...” 

He had been in the process of taking a breath, about to repeat her last sentence verbatim when she stopped him with an annoyed sigh and a sarcastic, “Don’t bother.” He made what he hoped were appropriate apologetic noises and she decided that in this instance it was best not to pick a fight.  “I can handle the lectures.  It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.  I just wish she was less obvious about the whole thing.  She’s already trying to push me on to Humphrey, if she had her way we’d be married and popping out children before the year’s out.”  She could feel him bristle at this, his worry and annoyance rolling down the line at her.  “You don’t need to worry Richard, even if we had ended up in a house together last night, I certainly wouldn’t have let _him_ share my bed.” 

He seemed genuinely surprised by her statement.  “Are you implying that you _let_ me share that pathetic excuse for a bed?”

“Do you really think I didn’t notice you behind me?  And that if I hadn’t wanted you there I wouldn’t have kicked you off it?”  She shook her head in annoyance.  “You are such a moron!”

“Why am I a moron?” 

“Because.”  Because if he’d taken her hints then they could have done more than share her bed that night.  Because he had steadfastly ignored her until it was too late. Because he had wasted so much time.  “Did you know I was awake?”

He raised an unseen eyebrow, “when?”

She shrugged.  “When you got in with me.  When the boys came in the next morning.” 

“No.  I didn’t know.” 

“I had to concentrate very hard on not snuggling up to you.”

She could hear him smile.  “I wouldn’t have minded.”  

“Yes you would.  And I don’t think we would be here now if I had.” She laughed silently imagining his utter outrage and horror at her pressing herself in to him.  “And if you _hadn’t_ minded, then...well let’s just say there could have been a worse outcome...” 

“What’s worse than us not being together now?” 

“Dwayne and Fidel catching us without our clothes on.”

He winced.  “Oh God, that is worse.” 

She laughed.  “So what’s happening in Croydon?  Any hurricanes?”

“Not for about 30 years...”  There was a short pause and he knew he would have to bring up the subject of her photo, despite the fact that the memory of that morning was still making his toes curl.  “I got your present.” 

“So I saw...”  She thought it was so typical of him that he hadn’t bothered to say thank you.

“Yes.” 

“Oh, I know that yes.  Did someone see it?”  She had a feeling from the mortified noises she was now hearing that she had guessed correctly.  “I told you not to be foolhardy! 

His temper had been riled a little.  “Yes, very handily your text message arrived after the incident.”  He sighed, releasing his tension.  “Why me, Camille?  Why does it always happen to me?”

She made soothing noises, “who saw?” 

“Lauren.  She said she wouldn’t tell anyone.  Said she didn’t want to ruin my reputation.  Come to think about it she was bloody cheeky about the whole thing.  But what does that mean?  Does that mean she’s just going to tell the women so they can laugh behind my back?  And I don’t understand what she meant about my reputation.  What reputation?”

Camille was barely listening, thinking that Lauren had been bloody cheeky too.  It was something that Camille would have done when they had been working together: the casual flirting, the gentle teasing.  And he had been so blind to her that he couldn’t even recognise when it was happening now.   

He was laughing quietly remembering his ineptitude.  “God, I knocked everything over on my desk in an effort to get it back into the box and then I left my bloody phone wide open!  

“Is it still in the box?”

“No.  It’s here.”  He smiled as he looked at the frame on his bedside table, his free hand unwittingly reaching out for her side of the bed, wishing she was still there.

“And where is here?”

“Next to our bed.”   _Our bed._ She never thought that such simple words could make her so happy.

“So aside from everyday embarrassment and lack of hurricanes in England, how is everything?”

He shrugged.  “Alright I suppose, it’s getting colder”.  She had been about to ask why the English always felt it was necessary to talk about the weather, when he continued.  “I hate eating at my desk, Camille.  It’s so boring. 

“And lonely?” 

He sighed, willing himself to open up.  It was all so new.  “Yes.  Lonely.” 

“The park is still lonely Richard.  You’re just outside.”

“I know, but I like it.  I like watching the people.” 

“Are there still lots to watch?” 

“Less so now.  They can’t cope with the weather.  There’s this woman there every day though.” 

“Oh?”  She couldn’t help it.  He talked so rarely about other women that it was difficult to hide the interest in her voice.                                                      

“It’s not like that.  She has a son...a little boy.  I don’t know how old he is, I don’t know enough children to compare him to, but he’s little.  And every day, the same time, the same place.  I just...watch them.”  He was beginning to realise what a creep this as making him sound like.  “God, that sounds so wrong.  I don’t watch them like that... 

“I know what you mean.”

“He’s so...” she heard him smile at the memory he was evoking.  “She dresses him in one of those old fashioned overcoats, do you know the ones I mean?  Beautiful.  The coat I mean.  Well the whole thing really I suppose.  They just create this perfect tableau of how everything should be.  How everything should look.  This ideal life, where this picture perfect family come to the park and feed the duck.”  He wasn’t really sure why he was telling her this.  He tried to get a grip on himself.  “Which is ridiculous really because they always give them bread, which could end up killing them.”  Camille had to hold back a laugh at his sudden change in direction.  She waited as he came back to his original point. 

“Anyway, they just stopped coming.  And I missed them.  Is that strange?”  She didn’t reply.  “I kept coming back to the park but....”  He shrugged off his disappointment.  “And it got colder, I almost stopped going, but then I hated the idea of being at my desk any more than I had to, so...”

“So you kept going.”

“Yeah.  And they did come back.”  Camille couldn’t work out where he was going with this.  “And he’d broken his arm Camille.  He was still this happy beautiful boy...just had this big ugly cast on his arm.  It was...”  He was trying to hide the emotion he felt, wondering why he’d decided to tell her this in the first place.  “Anyway, it just made me feel so...ridiculous, just this pathetic observer, watching while things happen to other people.  All that time I’d been sitting there waiting for them and he’d broken his arm.” 

She had been caught off guard but his sudden admission.  The force of his lonliness, his need for interaction.  She hadn’t been expecting something so raw or honest. 

“Life just always seems to happen to everyone else.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

He didn’t seem so sure.  “Perhaps.”

She tried a different tact.  “Is that what you want?  The perfect family?”

“Isn’t that what everyone wants?  Isn’t that what you want?”

It was the closest he’d come so far to admitting that he wanted a family with her.  He almost seemed to be waiting with bated breath for her answer.  “I don’t want them to be perfect Richard.  I want them to be happy.” 

He huffed a little in agreement, smiling at the idea of her as a mother.  There was a natural lull in the conversation which Richard mistook for her boredom.  “I’m sorry.  I’ve done it again.”  She thought she heard him mutter something about being ‘stupidly sentimental.’

“I like it.  You never used to talk to me like this.”

“Didn’t I?”  She could hear his flippancy creep back in again, the armour going back on.  “Well it was probably for the best.  We had enough problems without me trying to bore you to death.” 

“Problems like you ignoring me?”

He gave a snort of acceptance.  “Yes I was probably a little obtuse about your feelings towards me, wasn’t I?”

“Probably?”

“I thought, a couple of times…but they were always so fleeting.  After I found that snake...If Dwayne hadn’t been there, would you...?”

“Yes.  Probably.”  She was giggling, remembering his chosen night time attire.

“God, we really did waste time didn’t we?” 

“It’s not for much longer.”

He thought about the weeks ticking slowly away.  “It’s still too long.”

It was.  She needed a change in subject, something to stave off despondency.  The image of him in his striped two piece came to mind again and she laughed.  “Are you still sleeping in those pyjamas Richard?”

“No.”  He was firmly adamant.  She snickered.  “I’m not!”

“I don’t know why you’re lying.  I actually like your pyjamas.”

This, was a revelation to him.  “Well in that case, I am wearing them.” 

“You don’t have to be...”

He smiled and sighed as he realised what she was trying to do.  “No Camille.  It’s late and I need to go.  Speak tomorrow?” 

She hummed a response then realised she wanted one more thing from him.  “Richard?”  She heard a murmur in reply.  “Will you keep telling me about them?  About the boy?”

“If you like.”  

She nodded.  Then, “I miss you.”  Silence.  She hated the silence when he seemed at a loss for words.  She sighed.  “Goodnight Richard.”

His face was screwed up in self-beration at yet another missed opportunity, but he managed to keep his voice level all the same. 

“Goodnight Camille.”  He had meant to thank her for his present, but it was too late.  It was always too late.

 


	16. A Bump In The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last phone call I promise. I've nearly finished the next chapter too, so you wont have to wait long...

Skype had not been a good idea.  He was unusually irritable.  Perhaps it was because he was tired.  Or perhaps it was because Camille had been talking about Humphrey.  Again. 

On any other night he would have relished seeing her smile instead of just hearing it, would have sat idly counting the curls in her hair, watching for her dimple as she filled him in on life on Saint Marie.  But not tonight.  Tonight he didn’t want to wait for her to come home before he could talk to her.  He wanted to go to bed.  He wanted to wake up refreshed and ready to tackle another day at work. 

The extra paperwork and endless meetings had ensured that his fatigue had crept up on him.  It almost made him wish that he hadn’t had a promotion.  But without it he wouldn’t have the extra holiday, the extra money to pay for flights... The very thing that made their relationship possible was now making her unobtainable.  Added to which, the case he was working on, the case that needed to be tied up before he could take his leave showed no sign of ending.  There was no solution.  His team were baffled and more crucially, he was baffled. 

They bickered almost every day, petty squabbles and pathetic jealousies that neither paid any attention to.  It was a game.  It had always been a game between them.  But it as the weeks dragged by it had become harder.  There were only so many times that he could endure her talking about her nights out with the team, or listen as she told him about the beers she enjoyed at the shack.  His shack. 

Whatever the excuse, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his temper.  If he had been on the phone it would have been easier to hide.  But every mention of Humphrey, guaranteed an unguarded look of petulance, an eye squeeze, a grimace and an eye roll.  They were impossible for her to ignore. 

Sitting at her desk, Camille was having trouble remembering what their argument had been about, or who had started it. She had stewed at her desk all day, toying with her phone whenever she thought that no one was paying attention to her, wishing that he would call.  _Why hadn’t he called?_   _Where was he?  Was he still angry with her?  Was she still angry with him?_ She tried to focus on the current report in front of her but saw the words swim in front of her eyes in light of her diminishing anger and increasing panic.  Picking up her phone again, she was only stopped from looking at it when she saw Fidel frown his interest at her.  Shaking her head in response to let him know that everything was ok, the phone went back in the bag, and she resolved that she wouldn’t look at it again. 

But their conversation came back to her in bursts. 

“He’s my boss.”

“So was I and look what happened between us.” 

“Because I liked you too.  We’re in a relationship because we both like each other.  I don’t like him like that.”

“Oh, so how do you like him?  Enlighten me.”

His flippancy only made her angrier.  “As a friend Richard.  We work together and we have a drink together.”

“Yes, alone.  At his house.” 

“Because I drive him home.”

“Then stop driving him home.” 

“Stop telling me what to do.”

“I’m not telling you what to do I’m asking you to take my feelings into account.”

“I didn’t think you had any.”

“Excuse me?”

She gave an exasperated half scream.  “I just meant I don’t understand what your feelings have to do with it.”  She rephrased again when she saw his look.  “No, I mean, I don’t understand why this is such a big issue for you.” 

A patronising edge had crept into his voice.  “Ok, let me make this easy for you.  You spend every night of the week out with Humphrey in your mother’s bar.  And when you’re not doing that you’re at his house, chatting late in to the night.”

“So what?”

“So, it’s not appropriate.”

“Appropriate?  You don’t get to decide who I spend time with.” 

“No, clearly not, because if I did, you wouldn’t be dangling yourself in front of him like some tarted up piece of meat ready for the taking.”  He knew he shouldn’t have said it as soon as the words left his mouth.  But it was too late to retract them.  He started blustering the beginnings of an apology when he saw her look of utter disgust morph into hurt as the screen went black. 

***

His final sentence was taunting her.  She found herself studying the man opposite her, currently engrossed in a report similar to hers.  Was she really leading him on?  She knew they weren’t friends.  It had taken her a week to work out that much.  She might have pretended not to notice but she’d seen the way he looked at her: longing glances that were so polar opposite to anything that Richard had thrown her way that she had initially been flattered, before that had given way to indifference and occasional annoyance.  She also knew that she wasn’t completely innocent in her actions towards him.  She was flirtatious by nature. 

But he _knew_ that it didn’t mean anything, didn’t he?  

With a sudden flash, she realised that perhaps if he knew she was taken he would place less emphasis on the friendly flirting and easy rapport they had.

Her thoughts clearing again, her eyes refocused on him, realising that Humphrey was smiling at her, his report cast aside, the pining writ large on his face.  She flashed a quick smile back, hoping that it didn’t look too false and focused her eyes back on her own report.   

***

She had tried to ignore her phone.  Indeed, so focused had she been on not looking at it, that she had almost walked past the flowers on her doorstep.  They had been tucked as far into the corner of her doorway as possible, a thoughtful effort on the florist’s behalf to save them from the harsh heat of the sun that drenched her doorway.  Biting the inside of her lip she bent down, scouring the blooms for a card.  There was none.  Fluttering her hands over the petals, she stroked them, running her fingers down and along the stalks.  There was no doubt who they were from.  Orchids.  She held them to her, cradling them, remembering the only other time she had received flowers from him.  It seemed so long ago.

She carried them into her house quickly, remembering that she probably had to cut the stems in order to prolong their life.  She found a vase, doing her best with the meagre selection that her cupboard provided, arranging them quickly and badly.  She took a picture, creating another memory of him, knowing that their frailty and their beauty wouldn’t last.  The phone now in her hand was impossible to ignore, her fingers seeking out the last dialled number of their own accord. 

“Hi”

“Hi.”  He sounded exhausted as she heard the rustle of sheets and his heavy breathing.  He was clearly in bed.

“They’re beautiful Richard.”

There was embarrassed and relieved muttering on the other end of the phone.  “I wasn’t sure where to send them, didn’t want them going to the station.”  She nodded.  “I hope they weren’t left in the sun for too long?”

She ignored his question.  “You didn’t need to send them.”

“Yes I did.  I’m not very good at apologising.  But I’m…sorry.  About...um.”  he couldn’t bring himself to repeat what he’d said to her the night before.  She hadn’t replied and he wasn’t sure what her silence meant.  He huffed sadly.  “I wanted the first time I sent you flowers to be….different.  I wanted to send them to tell you…” he faltered. 

“To tell me..?” 

He pressed his lips together, holding back what he had been about to confess.  “Nothing.”  He had failed again. “I should have sent them to you ages ago.  I should send them every day.”

She laughed.  “That might be a little obvious though, don’t you think?  I have a feeling that the flower shop will already be gossiping about why you’re sending me flowers.”

“Perhaps.”  She wished that this time she could see him, she needed to know what he was thinking.  “Do you mind?” 

“Why would I mind?” 

“I thought…you might be embarrassed about getting them.”  There was silence as she tried to fathom why on earth he would think that.  As always he interpreted it incorrectly.  “Camille, if you don’t want to do this anymore, I’ll understand.  Just tell me.  Before…”  He had wanted to tell her not to break his heart face to face.  The journey back would have been too painful, too interminable.  But he couldn’t think of a way to phrase it without revealing his hand to her.

“Before what?  Richard, I’m not embarrassed…I…”  She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but knew that, if anything would flummox and ensure his silence, that would.  Instead she just settled for another, “I’m not embarrassed.  I miss you. 

He was nodding, thankful that he hadn’t ruined everything so close to seeing her again, trying to summon the courage to tell her that he missed her too, that he had been scared of losing her, that he had been a thoughtless oaf.  “You still want me to come then?”

“Of course I do!”  He did his best to hide his heavy sigh of relief. 

“It’s just, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk to your mother first?  I know that wasn’t the plan, but...”

“It’s only a week.  I’m pretty sure I can avoid her.  The gossip will drive her crazy though.”

It would have been so easy to quip that he thought she already was, but he knew better than to start the fight again.  Instead he settled for a bland, “I know.”  But there was no mistaking the smile in his voice.  The worst was past between them.

“You sound tired.” 

It was an understatement as he rolled his eyes.  “This case…it’s just not…moving.  I can’t figure it out.  And if I don’t figure it out…”

“Can I help?”

“No.  I don’t really want to talk about it.  I keep hoping that if I don’t talk about it, then the answer will just appear.”   She heard him groan as he flexed his back, cracking his spine and loosening muscles that had bunched and stiffened from too much time staring at his computer screen.  Why wouldn’t the answer come?  It always used to come to him, in a flash.  But that was before.  He tried to focus on something else.  “I might need one of those massages again.”

“One of _those_ massages?”

“You know what I mean.”  His mind was temporarily overcome with the memory of her breasts rubbing deliciously against the back of his head. 

“What are you thinking about?”  Her voice had changed pitch, it was now low, smooth, enticing.  She knew exactly what he was thinking about. 

But he was too tired to take the bait.  He cleared his throat.  “Nothing.  How’s work?”

Her tone hadn’t changed, it was still teasing, alluring...  “Oh not so bad.  I keep looking at your desk though, imagining you’re still here, thinking about what we’d get up to if we had to stay late one night, just the two of us..." 

There was a sharp intake of breath down the line.  He hoped she hadn’t noticed.  He was searching around for a subject, any subject that would deter her.  “And your mother?  How’s your mother?  Apart from the...gossip…stuff…”  He really hoped that the mention of her mother would bring them back on track, away from her insinuations.

She sighed.  “She’s fine.”  The awkwardness that he so hated had returned.  She was clearly waiting for him to ask another question, one that wasn’t forthcoming as he struggled to search for one.  “I should probably go.”

“No.  Don’t…I’m sorry.  I want to talk...”

She smiled at his persistence, knowing that he was already almost asleep.  “I think you should go.  It’s late with you, I forget about the time difference.  It’s not for much longer Richard...”

Something about the way she said it piqued his interest despite struggling to keep his eyes open.  “Have you found something?”

“Maybe.  I need to finalise a few things first...”

“Get all your ducks in order.”

She sounded confused, “we don’t have ducks…”  He grunted his response and she realised he was drifting.  “Speak tomorrow?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“Night Richard.”

“Night darling.”  He had been half asleep when he had said it but as she hung up she kissed the receiver.  All faith restored.


	17. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter not to be read in public...(sorry, if its awful. Its so hard writing this sort of thing...)

Richard had run from the office, suitcase in hand, making polite but determined excuses, desperate to make the check in on time.  He had done it!  Actually bloody done it!  He had a chunk of paperwork to take with him, but it was the least of his worries.  He only hoped that his team would be as good as their word and wrap the rest of it up.  If they didn’t…well then, it probably wasn’t worth his coming back.  He found that particular thought no longer bothered him as it once might have done.  He hadn’t had a choice anyway, either stay and miss his flight or trust them and go. 

He checked his watch again, and on impulse raised his hand at a taxi.  Time was running out. 

The flight itself had been spent in a state of nervous impatience.  He had tried to watch a film; a documentary; listen to the radio; but nothing had held his attention.  Time trickled by agonisingly slowly.  He had no other option but to entertain himself.  Looking around he catalogued those closest to him; couples, families, holidaymakers, people returning home.  He wondered how many were heading back to the island to visit their loved ones.  His machinations gave him little comfort.  He felt too much like the old Richard.  Suit and tie, heading out for work.  Not for the first time, he wished he’d had a chance to change.  He wasn’t sure that Camille would take kindly to him arriving in his work clothes. 

He was aware that work had taken a toll on him recently.  He was pale and pasty at the best of times but the predictable grey comfort of the weather that he had missed so much had meant that his skin had lost even more of its pallor.  His self confidence had dwindled in happy camaraderie with his sallowing skin, returning to the levels not seen since before his island days.   Perhaps it was because he was still acutely aware of the age gap between them, even though he now knew better than to mention it.  He had taken to studying himself in the mirror every morning, scouring his brush for the stray hairs that seemed incapable of staying on his scalp, pulling at the excess flesh of his cheeks, willing his skin to make a stand against gravity when he knew that it was hopeless. 

And then there was Catherine.  Far closer in age to him than he’d ever care to admit, he wasn’t exactly relishing spending a large portion of the week with her.  But it seemed likely.  It was the only place he could get a decent cup of tea.  She had learned to tolerate him in a professional capacity.  Being her daughter’s boss there had been very little she had risked saying to him given her unfounded fear of him harming Camille’s career.  But her daughter’s lover?  He couldn’t see her taking it too well.  If he was serious about Camille (and he was) then he needed to prove that Catherine mattered to him.  But how could he when she was such a constant reminder of how unsuitable he was for her daughter. 

He remembered with annoyance and envy the men that Catherine had paraded in front of Camille: doctors, lawyers, hoteliers and the like.  All young, good looking and athletic.  It had been part of the reason he had started running again, forgoing the embarrassment of being seen in his neighbourhood puce of face whilst mimicking the effects of a heart attack, all in an effort to impress her.  If he was no longer young, and God knows had never been good looking then at least he could try and be athletic. 

*** 

His lack of luggage negating the much hated baggage carousel, he was one of the first to emerge from the tiny airport joining the taxi queue.  Settling himself in the back seat he switched his phone on for the first time since London, delighting in the fact that Camille had been sending him messages despite knowing he wouldn’t receive them until they were almost reunited.  He felt the red smudge of a blush mar his cheeks as he scrolled to her latest messages before hitting the home button, telling himself to get a grip.  Dinner and bed.  That was the way it should go.  The last thing he wanted to do was pounce on her like some randy teenager.  His eyes closed for a moment with the wonderful contemplation of holding Camille in his arms again.  And opened, to the whine of breaks and the gentle purr of a stationery vehicle.  He had dozed off. 

Tipping the driver far more than he should have done in light of his embarrassment he hurried himself out of the car and stood on the pavement, heart thumping, feet leaden with new found nerves.  He felt his skin prickle uncomfortably under the thick material of his suit jacket and tight collar.  The air conditioning in the car had been bliss but it had skewed his perception of life beyond the metal and glass as it had flashed past the window. 

It was excruciatingly hot.  

He stood staring at the house, lost for a moment in remembering the last time he had been here, how much things had changed between them, how much more he was hoping for.  But despite so much change one thing remained constant.  He glanced up in annoyance into the infinite cerulean of the sky and winced as the glare of the sun hit him full on for the first time since arriving.  It beat down on him relentlessly, his thinning hair offering no protection against its heat.  He swayed a little, the patches of blindness in front of his eyes ensuring his lack of balance and for a split second he thought he would end up on his knees as the blood rushed to his head and a roaring sounded in his ears.  But it cleared.  And as it did so he was stopped in his tracks again by the memory of the first time he realised his working relationship with his sergeant might be a little more than platonic on his side. 

She was leaning in her doorway wearing a shy smile and the one dress he would always remember.  He felt the lead in his feet disappear almost instantly with the knowledge that she must have been waiting for him, have worn it for him.  Taking the stairs as quickly as he dared with the dead weight of his bag in his hand he found himself standing awkwardly in front of her, unsure of how to proceed.  

Should he sweep her off her feet? Wouldn't she think that was a little over the top?  He remembered his plan for the evening.  Dinner then bed.  Placing his bag upright next to them, he settled for a relatively chased kiss, one hand cupping her face, drawing her in to him.  Pulling back, he assessed the situation again.  Her eyes were still half closed in pleasure, lips set a little apart.  He could feel his restraint bending like barley in the wind as his resolve wavered and he tried again.

She reciprocated by placing her hands on his lapels, tugging him towards her, deepening their kiss. Clearly she hadn't been satisfied by his first attempt.  Breaking away to draw breath he looked at her again.  This time her eyes were open, looking at him with the kind of intensity that he had been trying to forget for the past two months.  His hand had slipped to her waist, resting on the thin band of cotton that was tied there.  He had to stop himself from following it round to the bow tied at her back, but instead gave it a playful tug, his eyes slipping down, taking in the simple v cut of the bodice, of the thin straps that accentuated the delicacy of her shoulders. 

He couldn't help himself.  Grinning, he kissed her again for a third time, his arms encircling her, her hands responding by curling around the back of his neck.  They seemed to hover over his collar, terrifying him with their indecision.  Up or down?  If she went down then she would dip beneath the fabric, finding the damp heat that was beginning to soak the tight enclave of material.  If they went up…well he supposed up was better than down, even if there wasn’t much there.  He willed her upwards and she obeyed, fingers splayed, teasing and caressing the hair at the nape of his neck. 

It was everything he had remembered and more, her lips, her tongue, her small gasps of pleasure as his hands worked their way up her back to her and around to her neck and chin, all the while holding her close to him.  It was only when he started to push her up against the balustrading that she broke their kiss using her free hand to push her front door back open.  

Sod restraint.  And sod dinner too.  

Richard took the hint , somehow moving them in to the house without releasing her, using the weight of their bodies to slam the door shut behind them, stumbling back, laughing and giggling, remembering their first time together in the same hallway.  

The giggling ended abruptly as she wound his tie around her hand, pulling him back in to her.  He in turn pushing harder, wedging her against the wall, eliciting a moan from her for his trouble.  Their levity had vanished in light of their longing, their need taking precedence over everything else.  Her hands were now clawing at the shoulders of his suit, trying to get him to release her so that she could divest him of his jacket.  He mistook her haste for playfulness and was becoming impatient.  

“Jesus, Camille just take it off!” 

It slid to the floor in a heap and she wondered if he would stop to hang it on the newel post of her staircase.  She almost expected him to, it would have been so typical of his character but clearly Richard had other things on his mind as he mumbled her name between kisses, forcing her neck up and devouring her greedily, his innermost thoughts finally being given a release. 

Richard heard, rather than felt his tie leave his collar with a whisper of silk before it fluttered to the floor at their feet.  Buttons too were swiftly dispersed with and at any other time he would have queried when she had become so proficient at removing male clothing, but her hands trailing briskly down his chest made him forget everything except her.  Desperate to touch his skin again she was now tracing the muscles of his stomach, tugging his shirt tails out of his trousers.  She teased him briefly, running her hands along the inside of the waist band, dipping her fingers down, encountering the beginnings of the coarse wiriness she found there.  Growing impatient she grabbed the end of his belt and pulled it open with a rush, unsteadying him in the process with her enthusiasm.  As the last barrier of his clothing fell open she found her underwear being forced down, her dress pushed up over her hips and her feet leaving the floor as he lifted her off the ground.  

Foregoing the need for any sensitivity on this occasion he pushed in roughly.  For a split second he wondered if he was going too fast, if he was hurting her, but any worry was quickly dispelled as her legs tensed around his waist and she dug her elbows in around the top of his shoulders in order to gain a better grip. 

Pausing just long enough to ensure that their reunion wasn’t a complete shambles on his part he began to move, his heavy breathing setting a rhythm as he gripped the tops of her thighs tightly using his strength and weight to pin her in place.  She found his lips again, surprising him by kissing him roughly, tugging on his lower lip with her teeth, nipping at his jaw line.  Mimicking her he was delighted to find that her cries of pleasure increased exponentially.  He moved his jaw to her neck again, scraping his teeth up and down the sensitive skin that he found there. 

It was over in a matter of moments, Camille’s moans reverberating in his ears as his movements became erratic, then stopped abruptly with her legs still wrapped tightly around him and her name as a final sigh on his lips.     

He held her for a moment, still breathing heavily, then gently lowered her to the ground, kissing her now with love rather than passion as she began to giggle.     

He seemed to understand her laughter this time, looking abashed, perhaps realising that it might not have been the welcome home love making she’d had in mind.  He was still struggling to get his breath back to normal.  “I'm sorry.  I wanted to take you to bed…the dress…” He was at a loss how to describe it to her. 

“Mmmm, I thought you'd like it…” 

“You're lucky we made it inside.” 

“Shame your bag didn't…” 

He thought about it on her steps, a visual calling card for her neighbours when she had specifically told them that she was going to Guadeloupe for a couple of days to ensure they had some privacy. 

“Oh bollocks!”

She laughed again and kissed him whispering a gentle, “it doesn't matter.  Nice suit by the way.” 

He apologised again thinking she had been annoyed by the fact he had arrived looking so official.  She cut him off mid flow, shushing him, remembering how much fun it had been to take it off him.  “I've missed it.  I’ve missed you.” 

He huffed, disbelieving, not understanding her change in sentiment given that she could now remove it from him whenever and however she liked.  He nuzzled her neck, reacquainting himself with the smell of her skin, her pulse point, the sensitive place behind her ear as she pushed him away gently.  Telling him to retrieve his bag, she smoothed her dress, picked up her underwear and headed upstairs, more than a little disheartened by his lack of reply.


	18. Birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another attempt at writing "non bus friendly" material. If it makes you feel any better I think that this will be the last one like this...In any case, please let me know what you think even if it is to congratulate me on never attempting to write smut again...

He had detected something a little off about her all morning, perhaps if he thought hard about it, it had been there when they had gone to sleep too.  A despondency that he hadn't been expecting as he’d settled his arms around her and pulled her close, relaxing in to sleep almost instantly.   Perhaps she wasn't that keen to see him again, had finally realised what a mistake their relationship was, what a let down their reunion had been the night before.  He chastised himself again for being too rushed, too rough with her.

She had let him sleep in, and he had been confused upon waking alone to find that she hadn't wanted to spend this first morning with him, her birthday.  Foregoing his shower and dressing quickly, he hurried downstairs further disturbed to find that she had preferred to spend her time with a cup of coffee and a magazine rather than with him.  Perhaps the idea of growing older had unsettled her. 

He kissed her, deciding that honesty was the best policy.  “Is everything ok?  I missed you this morning.” 

She nodded and Richard thought he detected a slight change in her demeanour.  Her smile became brighter, her mood shifted, had he been more suspicious he would suspected that she was hiding something from him, but he was simply happy that she was happy.

***

The atmosphere over breakfast had at least been pleasant, they had chatted and laughed, Camille’s fingers intertwined with his as they ate.  Richard’s fears had been allayed, there was nothing wrong with them, they were fine.  Thank God they were fine.  An uncomfortable knot developed in his stomach and an icy grip tightened around his heart at the thought of losing her, at returning home on an earlier flight, at never being able to kiss or touch or talk to her again.  He realised that he was holding her hand too tight, crushing her fingers.

At a lull in the conversation he pulled a confused Camille to her to her feet, guiding her into her living room, flashing her his lopsided smile when she tried to ascertain what his motive was.  He sat her down on the sofa in the gloom, the room not yet readied for the coming day.

“Close your eyes.”  She did as she was told, aware that she might be about to get her present, a badly concealed smile lighting up her face. 

She heard the flex and crack of thick card and wondered what he was up to, wondered if she could risk a quick glance though half closed eyelids.  But she had missed her opportunity as he was back beside her. 

“Ok, you can open them.”

Opening her eyes slowly she saw a thick black paper bag in front of her, end on.  He had clearly flat packed it, taking care to put it back together when her eyes had been closed.  She flashed him a puzzled look, which became more in depth when she realised that he was nervous, really nervous. Seeing the confused look on her face he began to bluster, “I'm not actually sure that they're what you want but I saw you looking at them when you were on my computer in London and I thought…” His words ran out as she reached for the bag, turning it so that it was now face on to her, her mouth forming a small ‘O’ in surprise at the logo. 

The bag looked like luxury itself: beautiful thick black card, an equally black embossed square in the middle surrounded by another outer embossed square stared back at her.  She could hardly believe the block white writing that she was looking at as it stood out in the middle of those black squares. 

Saint Lauren. 

Her face whipped back to his not quite knowing what to say.  There had to be something else inside the bag that didn't correspond to the logo.  Richard would never have bought her something so expensive.  He seemed to be waiting for her to continue so she pulled the bag closer to her with slightly shaking hands, and shallow breath, undoing the ribbon and pulling out a box.  A shoe box.  A shoe box with a matching logo on it.  She bit back a smile and held her breath 

The tension was almost too much for Richard, he wished that she would get on with it, couldn't understand why she didn't just open the damn thing to see what was in it.  He needed to know if he'd screwed up spectacularly or not.  They'd cost a bloody fortune, and if he had made a mistake then he wasn't looking forward to taking the things back.  He wasn’t even sure if he could take them back.

She removed the lid to find strappy sandals in intertwined electric blue suede staring back at her.  The same shoes she had been lusting after all season but had resigned herself to never getting.  At never being able to afford.  She gingerly picked them up marvelling at the stiletto platforms as she clutched them tightly to her chest squealing her joy and laughing at how Richard had chosen the midsized heel so that she didn't tower above him.  It was probably for the best, she wasn't sure if she could walk in 6 inches anyway.

At the moment that Richard was contemplating if she liked them, she decided to throw herself at him, narrowly avoiding knocking him out with the platforms of the shoes she was still holding as her arms came around his neck.  Her words came out in a rush.  “I love them, they're amazing!  Oh my god you're amazing, I love you so much!”  She was squealing again and he was completely bewildered by her reaction.  He thought somewhere in her jumbled thank you that he had heard her say that she loved him but given the fact that she was now shrieking her excitement he wasn’t sure if it was a good time to say it back.

“So they're ok?” 

“Of course they're ok!”  She pushed back off him suddenly and left the room, leaving him calling after her, wondering where she was going.  “I need to try them on!”  She returned a few minutes later with them on her feet, having changed into a skirt, twirling for him as she came back into the room. “How do I look?”

His eyes travelled down her calves, now lengthened by the platform and stiletto heel and he nodded his approval.  They did look nice, really very nice.  He wasn't sure if he would have been able to tell the difference between them and a cheaper pair of shoes but given that Camille still looked ecstatic, he was happy to let that thought slide. 

Her arms were around his neck once more; kissing him; thanking him again and again; trying to roll him over; making it perfectly obvious how she wanted to show her appreciation.  He resisted as best he could.  But he wanted something slower, to try and make amends for whatever he had done that had upset her so much.  He was grateful that the shoes had managed to reaffirm her good mood with him, but he needed to atone.  He had hoped to still be in bed with her at this particular point of the morning but as Camille was showing no signs of stopping he assumed that her living room was ok.  After all, his had been.  

Moving her unhurriedly on to her back, he started to kiss and undress his way down her torso, stopping periodically to push Camille back down when she protested that she wanted something faster.  Reacquainting himself with the curve of her hips and the inside of her thighs, he moved his way down her calves to her shoes, undoing the soft suede of her straps, grateful that they were at least easy to remove.  Registering Camille finally relax and give in to his pace he stopped, reaching for the sofa, for a cushion.  Helping her up gently he placed it under her head, settling himself on top of her, face to face, kissing her softly, before making his way down her neck and over her collar bones again to the tops of her breasts and down further still.

If Camille had initially wished for something fast and furious, less than a minute with Richard had changed her mind.  Last night had been passionate but she had been left feeling unfulfilled both by his lack of emotion and her underachievement of the physical side of their reunion.  Laying back now, she revelled in the familiarity of him, letting the feeling of his mouth overwhelm her as her mind went blank and all she could feel was a familiar tension in her stomach begin to grow.  Aware that she was close he pulled back, wanting to increase her enjoyment.  Each time he raced her to the end, holding back at the last minute ensuring that her finish was out of reach, not realising what his teasing was doing to her until she started to grip the fingers of the hand that he had left on her breast in annoyance.  Her other hand which up until then had been lightly resting in his hair began to pull at him, trying to tell him that it was too much, that he needed to stop.   He didn't.  

Realising he couldn't continue to tease her, the hand on her breast now shifted to her sternum, holding her down while he looped his free arm around her thigh, gripping it with his hand.  She started to writhe and buck, the grip in his hair tightening to the point of pain but still he held on, relishing the way her body responded to him. 

Her breathing was becoming laboured, she could feel the beginnings of the pin prick of sweat on her temple as the grip inside her stomach tightened, becoming almost unbearable.  If he stopped now she wasn't sure that she would be able to stop her scream of frustration, kicking him off, ensuring her escape, doing anything to stop the exquisite torture he was putting her through.  

And then it hit her, when she thought she could take no more.  Wave upon wave of exquisite release tore through her, freeing her from him.  Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware that she was speaking gibberish but she didn't care. Her hand came down on his head now holding him to her as she lost control of her body, muscles twitching and spasming involuntarily, as much as his weight on top of her would allow. 

When finally she had recovered enough for him to be free he placed a kiss on the inside of her thigh, his stubble setting off another aftershock of her orgasm causing her to shudder beneath him.  He grinned at her, reaching for the sofa again and pulled his shirt over his head.  She watched him through heavy lidded eyes, saw him wriggle out of his trousers and underwear, saw him bring another cushion to her, assumed he was going to lie next to her.  Her assumption turned to surprise when he motioned for her to lift her hips.

“Camille...”  She shook her head in response, too tired to argue with him.  He lent over her, kissing behind her ear, whispering, “please…”

She raised her knees, bracing her back, allowing him to slide the cushion under her, lifting her up towards him.  He touched his lips to her neck again in gratitude, worried that she wouldn't want to kiss him yet. 

She looked exhausted, her eyes closed, endorphins swirling through her, barely wakeful as he lifted her leg and thrust smoothly inside her.  Her eyes were open in an instant, the last vestiges of her orgasm returning in full force as she was brought to the edge again by the depth their new angle had achieved.  He was gently unremitting, conscious that this time it was about her, each time receiving a loud moan for his trouble.  His mouth returned to hers, kissing her gently, letting his body speak for him, telling her he loved her when he hadn't yet found the courage to do so himself.  He felt her hands in his hair again, caressing him as her mouth and tongue responded to him, felt her fall apart beneath him, her body losing control again as she tightened perfectly around him, pulling him in to the abyss after her.  They came together noisily and breathlessly. 

***

Sliding the cushion out from under her, he transferred it to head height.  Kissing her cheek, eyes shining, he watched as her breathing returned to normal, waiting for her eyes to open so he could pull her towards him in an embrace. 

Instead he saw a drop of wetness gather at the corner of her eye, amassing slowly before overflowing and winding its way towards her ear, taking the gravitational path of least resistance.  She tried to turn her head from him.

“Camille…?”  His voice held the beginning of panic but she didn't answer.  He was over her in a moment, eyes wide with concern.  “Is everything alright?  Did I hurt you?”

She turned away from him, blinking frantically and inhaling deeply, trying and failing to steady her breathing.  He had no idea why she was crying.  “Please…I don't know what I've done wrong…”

Her voice was small, shaking with the tears that were engulfing her.  “It’s me…”

It was beginning to sound like a break up speech to Richard and panic set in, fear unsteadying his voice.  “Tell me.  Camille…I'll fix it, I'll fix anything.”

“You can't fix it.”  His eyes became wider, searching her face for some clue as to how he had managed to make her cry after what he thought had been one of his better efforts. 

He began picking apart his recent behaviour, clutching at anything that might give him a clue as to where he had gone wrong.  There was only one thing he could think of.  “Is this because of yesterday?”

She was still shaking her head, trying to stop her face from screwing up completely as her sadness threatened to overwhelm her.  “You make me feel so loved.”  Another tear fell as her voice faltered. 

“Is that bad?”  He had gathered her in his arms, rolling on to his back, taking her with him, holding her tight, trying to understand as he felt her continue to shake as more tears flowed on to his chest. 

“I love you so much.”  He paused waiting for her to continue, for her to reveal how he had managed to screw up this time.  It was the worst thing he could have done.  Her shoulders heaved with the burden of his silence.  “But every time I tell you I miss you or that I love you, you don't say anything.  And I'm so confused.”  She indicated to her new present, “my shoes and the way you make love to me…” She paused again.  “But you never _say_ anything.  I can't live like that Richard.  I need you to tell me, and if you don't feel the same then maybe…maybe we shouldn't be together. 

Her shoulders heaved again and his grip tightened at the thought of losing her as she struggled for control of her emotions. 

He lay still, thinking about the last few minutes, how a beautiful woman was now crying because she thought he didn't love her, how he'd waited his entire life for this one moment, if only he had the courage to finish it, to tell her.  He was aware that with every second he deliberated he was losing her. 

He turned his face into her hair speaking softly, haltingly, embarrassed that it had taken him so long to say what he should have said that first weekend.  “I want to.  I…um.  I just… I've…I've never told anyone before.”  Her ragged breaths became a little more even as she began to calm, realising that this wasn't the end as she had thought. “I knew last night was my fault.  I'm sorry I'm so useless, I couldn't wait.”

Her face peaked out of the crook of his arm, her eyes red, but some of the old spark was back In light of the beginning of his confession.  “I wasn't upset about the sex Richard, I wanted that as much as you did.  But I told you I'd missed you and you ignored me.  You didn't even acknowledge that I'd said anything.  I felt…” She searched around for a word that would try and convey how she was feeling, “used.  Like you'd come here for sex rather than to see me.”

He was looking at her, shocked that she could ever have thought something like that about him.  “I would never...” the words began to tumble out in light of her hurt, his sincerity anchoring them both in the present.  “Camille, I think about you every minute of every day.  I come home from work to an empty house and all I can think about is how much I want you there, just to be able to kiss your cheek and tell you about my day, or to argue about cooking with you, or to have you climb into my lap when I'm reading.”  He wiped away the tracks of her tears with his thumb.  “I'm so lonely without you.  And every time you tell me you miss me I'm so happy that I panic and I don't know what to say.  And when I finally think about telling you that I miss you too, you've moved on to something else and I can't think of a way to do it that won't make me seem weird.  But I do.  I do miss you.”  He took a deep breath.  “And I love you.” 

She shifted on him, raising her head so that she could look him in the face for the first time, trying to discern if he was telling her simply what she wanted to hear.  He looked back at her in earnest, leaning down to kiss her.  He took her hand and placed it over his heart so that she could feel it racing, giving her a half-hearted smile.  “Feel what you do to me.”

Resting her hand there, palm down, she could feel his heart galloping inside his rib cage.  She lay in silence, captivated by the simple pleasure of his heart beat, finding comfort in his chest rising and falling rhythmically.  Her fingers stroked over his skin, seeking out the strands of hair that were sparser towards the top of his torso.  Her earlier despair was seeping away as his hand closed over the top of hers.

A smile had crept back in to her voice.  “Does it do that all day?" 

The corners of his mouth twitched in her hair in response.  “I have a feeling it might calm down when you put your clothes back on...”

She gave a little hum of amusement and acknowledgement.  “Do _you_ want to put your clothes back on?"

“Not really.”

Her smile growing, she broke their contact and reached for his boxer shorts all the same, knowing that he would be more comfortable wearing them.  He was loathed to release her but he really was beginning to feel exposed.  It didn’t matter that they were alone, there was something about his genitals touching fresh air that just didn’t feel natural. 

He was reluctant to dress completely though, not when he was hoping that so much of his day would be spent without clothing.

Turning, he watched as Camille reached for her shoes, raising her legs up in front of her one by one in order to put them back on as she replied, “good.”  She hadn't planned on dressing either, was perfectly happy being naked as the day she was born, wearing nothing but a pair of shoes but she reached for his discarded shirt thinking that he might appreciate its indecently short length on her. 

He was watching her slightly perplexed, “what are you doing?”

“Changing location.  Don’t you want to go to bed?”

He was nodding.  “And the shoes?”

She shrugged, “they're my new favourite pair.  I have to wear them in.”  She added provocatively, “don't you like me in them?”  She was already up, walking away from him, sashaying through the door, hips wiggling far more than they usually did.  Richard’s first thought was that yes, he did like her in them, very much.  His second was that his bank balance was going to take a hammering if he didn't start learning to say no to her, but both thoughts faded quickly as he rose, following her without thinking back to bed. 

 


	19. Caught in the Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for lovely comments, they have made me feel a lot better about the smut (or necessary smut as you sweetly called it)!

Seeing Lily ahead of her Catherine hurried to catch up, calling out a greeting as she did so.  She caught her easily.  Lily moved unhurriedly, her shopping cart and old age slowing her up.  She turned to acknowledge her but refused to stop completely as the effort to restart again would have been too much for her back.  Sensing a potential awkwardness, Catherine took the cart from her, ignoring the dirty look she received for her trouble.  If Lily was one thing, then it was independent, regardless of how old she was. 

Lily gave a cantankerous grunt of acceptance and Catherine adjusted her speed so that they were slowly walking side by side. 

“You on your way to see Camille?”

Catherine smiled at Lily’s abrupt line of questioning.  She was at the age where small talk was no longer a necessity.  She had no need to make new friends. 

“No, she’s away.”  Her reply was warm.  Lily was one of the old vanguard of the island, as crabby as she was it was difficult not to respect her. 

Lily nodded.  “Well, you tell her when she’s back that it’s not ladylike to stand on the doorstep like a hussy.”

Crabby, Catherine was expecting.  A personal attack on her daughter, she was not.  She was temporarily floored.  “Excuse me?”

“Kissing.  Like their lives depended on it.  So everyone could see.”  Catherine’s masked look of ignorance only stoked Lily’s need for gossip, and it didn’t get much better than imparting gossip to the mother of the subject in question.  “Her and that policeman,” she said smugly, before adding testily, “wouldn’t have happened in my day.  People respected their neighbours in my day.”    

Catherine nodded politely hoping that it wasn't too obvious she didn't have a clue what Lily was talking about, all the while trying to arrange her thoughts.  Camille had told her she was going to Guadeloupe for the weekend, but Lily had just told her she had seen her kissing someone on her doorstep.  A policeman.  Given that Catherine had seen Lily yesterday afternoon and she hadn't mentioned it, it could only mean that Camille was still at home.  Alone on her birthday.  Dropping Lily off at her door midway through a suspiciously prepared sounding soliloquy on the youth of today, she headed to her daughters front door.  The least she would do was wish her a happy birthday in person. 

***

She tried knocking, but there was no reply.  Wanting to surprise her (and get to the bottom of the kissing mystery) she took her keys out, fitting them in the lock only to find that the chain was on the other side.  A little worried now that Camille was clearly at home and hadn't called her, Catherine began to circle the little house until she was in front of her living room window only to find that the curtains were drawn.  Frowning at Camille’s slovenly behaviour she cupped her hands around her face and leant into the glass trying to peer through the gap into the gloom, intent on finding her daughter and make her answer the door. 

She was greeted by the sight of two pairs of legs.  Bare legs.  Tangled lazily in a sinuous lovers knot, moving to a rhythm that Catherine couldn’t and didn’t want to hear.  She stumbled back immediately, a flat buzzing ringing in her ears, grateful that she had only seen legs. 

Well, that would explain the lack of contact, the curtains and the chain on the door.  Hurrying away from the house she tried not to dwell on what she had just seen but was unable to erase it completely as the image jumped around erratically in her thoughts.  It took a moment to understand what her conscience had clearly already processed. 

White legs.                                                                               

There weren’t that many white men that Camille knew on the island.  A slow smile spread across her face as she remembered what Lily had said: a policeman.  She’d always liked Humphrey, clearly Camille did too.  In her happiness the more coherent side of her brain chose to ignore the gossip that Richard’s flowers had caused and the fact that the legs weren’t long enough to belong to their new DI.  She continued her journey back to the bar, determined to put as much distance between her and the house as she could.

***

It was early afternoon as Humphrey swanned into the bar whistling tunelessly, a content expression on his face.  He stopped at the bar asking for a beer, but had barely had time to draw breath before Catherine pre-empted him, charm oozing from her.

“Hello Humphrey, you’re in a good mood.”  She smiled an enigmatic smile, one that Humphrey didn’t quite understand.

“No more than usual Catherine.” 

“Have you seen Camille today?”  She studied him carefully, looking for a blush, a tiny lip curl masking a smile, anything that would have given him away.

“No.  No I haven’t, I thought she was on Guadeloupe?  Is she having a good birthday?”  He took a seat, simultaneously blushing and smiling, at the thought of Camille enjoying herself in a bikini.

Catherine gave him another all knowing smile, misreading his emotions entirely.  “Oh, I’m sure you would know better than I would.”  He nodded his head at her, not entirely sure what she was getting at but not wanting to contradict her. 

She slid a beer across the bar, knowing what he wanted as she had always known with Richard.  She watched him take the first refreshing gulp, and allowed her mind to wander in to usually closed off territory.  Grandchildren.  Looking at the man opposite her she wondered what they would look like: straight hair or corkscrew curls?  Tall and elegant or gawky and clumsy?  She stopped him on his second sip, images of giggling toddlers with pudgy thighs and bright smiles clouding her mind.  She leant forward conspiratorially.  “You know Humphrey, Camille’s been so much happier since you came to Saint Marie.”

“Oh right.  Great!”  Humphrey was beginning to feel like he was on the back foot with Catherine, but couldn’t quite put his finger on why, putting it down to the fact that the Bordey women usually ran rings around him on both a personal and professional level. 

Catherine continued her cooing, interpreting his silence as an admission.  “You are having a wonderful affect on her.”  Humphrey continued to nod, wondering where she was going with this.  “You see, sometimes a mother sometimes misses things, but I believe she’s very much in love and I think I have you to thank for that.”

She slid away from the bar to take care of some other customers, leaving him alone with his thoughts and feeling slightly stunned by her revelation.  Camille!  It wasn’t possible was it?  Could she really be in love with him?  His heart began to thump uncontrollably as he processed their recent conversation.  It was true that she had politely rebuffed his previous advances.  But he had been drunk.  Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to kiss him when she thought his feelings might have been skewed by drink?  He looked down in surprise at his bottle and found that it was empty and waved enthusiastically to a member of Catherine’s staff for a soft drink while he collected his thoughts. 

He wasn't going to ruin things this time.

***

In another part of the bar, Catherine placed a call to Juliet.

“Yes!  She’s still here...No, I thought she’d gone to Guadeloupe too, it seems we were mislead...could you call her and tell her to bring Humphrey with her tonight?...I think so.  He’s been so obvious about it.  But my Camille is much more discreet...”

Laughing, she hung up the phone.  Tonight, she would smoke them out...

***

Ringing the doorbell he ran a hand through his hair again, bobbing his head just in time to realise that he had a stain on the lapel of his jacket.  Making a split second decision to take it off he was in the process of balling it up with his hands when he realised that the reason he’d been wearing it in the first place was to hide another stain on his shirt. 

The door opened, but instead of Camille he found himself face to face with a man.  A man who was in the process of shouting something to the kitchen, a half smile on his face.  The smile faded a little as shrewd eyes took him in. 

The sight of creased linen trousers, a crinkled and stained shirt, scuffed and unpolished shoes and what looked like a very crumpled linen jacket greeted Richard as he opened the door.  Humphrey got the distinct impression from the frown he received that he was being judged.  He tried his best to do the same.  A look that he wasn’t able to achieve when he realised what he was looking at: 

Pristine shirt with military precision rolled sleeves, perfectly ironed chinos, and polished boat shoes stood before him.  _Polished boat shoes?_ Thought Humphrey, w _ho in their right mind polished their boat shoes?_

Humphrey found that he had been staring at the man’s feet.  He was brought back to reality on hearing Richard’s slightly bemused voice.  “Can I help you?” 

“Um, I was looking for Camille?  Is she...”  he was trying to peer around the man in the door, hoping that if she caught a glimpse of him she would come to his rescue. 

Richard hadn’t taken the hint so Humphrey felt it was time to assert himself.  “Sorry, we haven’t been introduced, DI Humphrey Goodman.”

The man nodded and took the proffered hand.  “Richard Poole.”  The reply came back instantly and without any alarm that Humphrey hoped the recognition of his name would have given.  His quiet confidence and the fact that he didn’t feel the need to use his title, a title which Humphrey knew outranked his, made the colour drain from his face as he realised who he was actually talking to. 

“Um, pleased to meet you.”  Richard nodded in response, but the stony look on his face stayed in place.  Humphrey began to wish he hadn’t come when he finally heard Camille’s voice.    

“Who is it?”  Although he didn’t need it confirmed, the familiarity of her tone was enough for him to ascertain that he had stumbled in to territory he didn’t belong.    

”Your boss.”  His reply came back swift and sure.  It was a reminder of his place in the relationship.  The boss.  Not Humphrey, the friend the possible lover.  He was just her boss.   

Camille came to the door instantly.  “Sir!  Is anything wrong?  Do you need me at the station?”

Humphrey now found himself struggling for a reason as to why he was at her house.  On this particular day, when she had told him she would be in Guadeloupe.  “No.  Oh no.  I just...” he was searching around for an excuse, the only thing he could hit on was, “I just came to say Happy Birthday!”

Camille gave him her usual look that implied he was quite sweet but a little weird.  “Thank you sir, that’s kind...”

“Yes, well...now that’s done.  I’ll be on my way.  To the station...paperwork and…things.”  He tailed off realising that to say more would only compound himself as a fool in her eyes, stepping back as he did so, nearly falling over the break between the edge of the path and the grass verge. 

Richard watched him hurry away then closed the door softly, turning to see that Camille was eyeing him with an _I told you so expression on her face_ . 

“So that’s your competition,” a shrug accompanied her statement.   He nodded.  “Now do you believe me when I tell you, you have nothing to worry about?”

He nodded again.  “He’s in love with you.” 

She thought about contradicting him, but wasn’t sure why she should bother when it would only lead to an argument.  Instead she said, “since when have you been a relationship guru?”

“Since I saw the look on the poor man’s face when I opened the door.”  Richard was wondering just what would have happened if Camille had been on her own.  Another rebuffed kiss perhaps?

“So you feel sorry for him now?” 

It was difficult for Richard not to.  It would have been so easy for the roles to have been reversed, to have been the one watching Camille with another man.  Yes, he definitely pitied Humphrey, but that didn’t mean he liked him.  Or trusted him.  He was about to say as much when Camille’s phone rang.  She mouthed “ _Juliet”_ at him and he nodded, knowing that he had to be quiet.He would tell her another time.  


	20. Outed

“We’ll be as quick as we can.  I promise.”  She placed a swift kiss on the corner of his mouth.  He didn’t look placated so she tried more cajoling.  “Don’t you want to see Benjie?  And Fidel and Juliet?”

He was about to tell her that he didn’t care about seeing any of them, even though that wasn’t strictly true, when she cut him off with a sigh.  It was the type of sigh that Richard knew was fruitless to try and argue against.  Her patience was running out.  She hadn’t particularly wanted to come either, but there had been no polite way to say no.  She still had no idea how Juliet knew she was on the island.  But the invitation had been for both of them and it was a chance for them to be seen together openly, no more hiding.  It was also a chance to congratulate Fidel and Juliet on their new arrival.  

The door opened before the bickering could start and Camille took a step forward, pinning a smile on her face, momentarily blocking him from the light streaming out of the house.  “I’m sorry we’re late!”  It was true that they had arrived later than intended, but it had the added bonus of the majority of people having left already. 

Juliet peered around Camille ready to welcome Humphrey into her house, only to be greeted by the sight of an awkward looking Richard skulking outside her door.  She only just managed to hide her surprise. 

“Inspector!  How lovely to see you again!  Come in and I’ll get you a drink!”  She kissed him briefly, noticing with amusement that she received only a proffered cheek in return for her trouble.  She hurried away quickly, desperate to find Fidel to try and brief him on the situation.  Racing from the kitchen to greet his old boss with a warm handshake Fidel failed utterly in keeping the excitement from his face.

“Sir!  What a surprise!  How are you?”

Richard still looked slightly sheepish to have been included in their party but managed to make the appropriate responses including the obligatory congratulations on Fidel having produced another child. 

Juliet was beaming at him, her husband’s arm protectively looped around her waist.  “We’ve put him upstairs if you want to go and see him?” 

Camille gave him the type of look that meant he had no choice as she replied, “just quickly?  Is that ok?”

Juliet wouldn’t hear of anything else.  “Of course!  He’s totally out of the count, we could move the party up there and he wouldn’t even notice so don’t worry about waking him!  You know where it is.”  She gave what Richard thought was a wholly inappropriate wink no matter how brief it was, as she ushered them to the staircase.  He was about to make an excuse, any excuse about seeing the newborn another time when he felt Camille’s hand close around his arm, dragging him up the stairs. 

***

Creeping over to the Moses basket, Richard had followed her, desperately trying not to trip over anything.  She was whispering, “Oh my God, he’s so cute!” before turning to him, eager for his own approval on the mass of blankets. “Richard?” 

Managing to make it over to her without any major problems he was now peering down at the newborn in the gloom, Camille in front of him, almost acting as a shield between him and the baby.  His arms were resting on her waist, his head craning forward over her shoulder.  She felt his arms tighten around her in worry and patted his arm in reassurance.  “Relax.  He won’t wake up…see?”  She had been raising her voice steadily, Richard wincing with the anticipation of hearing a newborn’s scream as she finished.  But all was silent. 

He expelled a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  “He’s very sweet,” he conceded quietly.

As their eyes adjusted they stared down at him, tiny and to Richard’s mind a little shrivelled, like a prune.  He was also wondering if he was wearing too many clothes.  It was boiling.  Not for the first time was he relieved that he no longer had to wear a suit. 

So caught up in the moment were they that they missed the red light on the monitor, glowing steadily at them. 

***

Down in the kitchen, Catherine and Juliet were gently tidying up, waiting patiently for the remaining guests to finish their drinks and realise that parents of a newborn might not want their company for much longer. 

“You know Catherine, given what you said I was expecting Camille to arrive with Humphrey.  I had no idea that Richard was back on the island...”

“Camille’s arrived?”  Her friend nodded.  “With Richard?”  Juliet nodded again and Catherine made to get up to greet her daughter and finally get to the bottom of the mystery.  She was waved down again by Juliet.

“They’re upstairs seeing Benjie.” 

Taking her seat again Catherine was as perplexed as Juliet.  “I thought she _was_ bringing Humphrey.  I stopped at her house this afternoon and I...”  She remembered the length of those white legs and all the facts suddenly slotted into position.  “Oh!”  Her exclamation piqued Juliet’s interest and she received a sly look.  “Camille hasn’t said anything, but...yes it has to be...” she shrugged, as the monitor chirped into life, curtailing any more questions.

***

Their whispered tones filled the silence of the kitchen.  _“Oh my God, he’s so cute!  Richard?”_ Then, _“Relax.  He won’t wake up…see?”_

_“He’s very sweet.”_

Juliet gave Catherine a look that quite clearly said how cute she thought they were.  A look which rapidly turned into discomfort as their conversation continued. 

Upstairs in the bedroom Camille was still staring at the newborn, suddenly conscious that Richard was a captive audience.  _“Do you want one?”_ He didn't answer and the women could only assume that he had nodded his answer as Camilla continued.  _“With me?”  H_ er tone was teasing. 

In the gloom, she could barely make out his eyes, but she sensed him turn his head, felt a kiss pressed against her temple. _“Don't you think we should at least be living together first Camille?”_ That thought silenced her teasing, she thought again about her impending move, about their lives seamlessly intertwining, about him donning the mantle of fatherhood.  She burrowed back against him, happiness surging through her, one thought more prevalent than others, a broad smile returning to her lips. 

_“Is that what you think about when you’re on your own?  About us having babies, watching them grow in to men…”_ Her playful tone rang dull in the vacuum that his sudden silence had left and for a moment she wondered if she had said something wrong, if he didn’t want that after all.  But his disquiet vanished in the next moment as he came back to her suddenly, his thoughts dancing quickly from past to present. 

He shook his head slowly, apparently dismayed at the idea of how old he would be when their children were fully grown.  He sighed, _“God, I’ll be ancient.”_

She leant her head against his, reassuring him.  _“I’ll be ancient too...”_

He smiled.  _“You could **never** be ancient.”  _

In the kitchen the two woman smiled at the blossoming romance upstairs, remembering how their own love stories had developed similarly before life and children had somehow intervened.  It was changed to uneasiness again as their conversation continued. 

A thought suddenly occurred to him and he began to panic. _“You’re not pregnant are you?”_

_“No of course not!”_

He took a perfunctory breath out of relief and released it very slowly in the hope that she wouldn’t notice, but she was clearly giving him a look that he knew was going to escalate to an argument very quickly unless he did something.  His tone became placating.  _“No, only because, I think that your mother should probably know about...us first… before...”_ The idea of Catherine knowing was clearly too much for him.  He sighed, “ _She’ll probably kill me._

She elbowed him in disagreement. 

_“Oh come on, I get her only daughter pregnant and whisk her off to London?  I doubt I’d even make the plane.”_ He huffed his amusement, then realised that she might need more reassurance.   He sighed again. _“It’s not because I don’t want that.”_ There was a pause as he muttered, _“even if you are half my age.”_ They heard her mimic his grumbling, his protests at her teasing, his assertion that he was correct the first time, her laughter then another pause.  

_“Do you remember the first time you held Rosie?”_   He smiled unseen at the memory of cradling such a small thing in his arms and squeezed her waist to let her know that he did.  _“Before she was sick on you...”_  

They thought they heard him mutter something about not being the first time a girl had been sick on him.  Juliet was now giving Catherine a look which made it quite clear that she thought that their eavesdropping had gone on long enough, but Catherine waved her away, too engrossed in her mischief.  Their conversation continued, engrossed by the child in front of them and cosseted by the feeling that his heavy and steady breathing elicited in them.  Their audience downstairs remained seated against Juliet’s better judgement. 

_“I’m not sure I’ll be very good at it Camille.  I’m not exactly great with children.”_ His voice was tinged with sadness, and all three women felt a stab of pity for him.  

_“Maybe.”_ Her hand came up to caress the side of his face. _“But you’ve never had any practise.  And you didn’t think you’d be very good with me either and we’re not doing too badly.”_   There was another pause and Catherine couldn’t help but wonder what was going on up there.  _“What makes you think I’ll be better than you anyway?”_

She felt him shrug.  _“It’s in your genes.”_

They thought they heard him mutter _“your mother,”_ andJuliet shot Catherine a look that said that that was high praise indeed coming from Richard Poole.

She digested this little piece of information before coming to a revelation of her own, _“You know, I’m a little jealous of him.”_

He sounded genuinely perplexed by her admission. _“Why?”_

She shrugged. _“Innocence.  Freedom from responsibility.”_ His silence spoke volumes and it was her turn to be baffled.  “ _Don’t you miss your childhood?”_

He was debating his next sentence and finally decided on what he thought was an enigmatic, _“Prep school boys aren’t very nice, Camille.”_

_“Oh?  Did they call you names?”_ She was teasing again. 

He gave a short burst of quiet laughter at her naivety. _“More like stuff soap bars in their PE socks and hit me with them.”_ He saw the look on her face and mistook her horror for inquisitiveness.  He answered with a pragmatic, _“they don’t leave bruises, well, subcutaneous ones I suppose, but not visible...”_ he trailed off in light of the look he was now receiving.

She was shocked.  _“Richard, that’s…Oh my God!  Did you tell your parents?”_

He shrugged and shook his head at the same time, trying to convey in that one heave of his shoulders the fact that he had done so the first time and received another beating for his trouble.  He hadn’t bothered worrying them after that, burying himself away in the library instead of on the playing fields building friendships.  She stroked his cheek murmuring _“poor baby,”_ as he made a reach for her hand, trying to wash away the fuss that she was trying to create.  She would not be swayed. _“We need to talk about this.”_

Her statement was met with a look of wariness. _“It was 30 years ago.”_

_“It’s important.”_

Masking his look of abject annoyance at having his past so ignominiously dragged in to his future he decided to use her latest emotions on the subject of his schooling to his advantage.  He nodded his head towards the door insinuating that they should leave to do just that. _“We could talk about it at home if you wanted to…”_ He sounded a little too enthusiastic.

_“No.”_ He had clearly made a face because the next thing they heard was, _“I’m sorry.”_

He kissed her cheek, finding the feeling of her skin under his lips soothing, murmuring disappointedly, _“it’s fine. We have the rest of the week to be alone.”_

She made a noise that Richard thought sounded decidedly guilty.

_“Oh God, I know that sound...why won’t we have the rest of the week to be alone?”_

_“Oh we will.  I just thought it might be nice to spend some time with Rosie...”_

_“Rosie?  As in Rosie...”_ he indicated towards the other bedroom and Camille nodded. 

She pre-empted him.  _“You know, if you wanted to see if you’re any good.”_ He looked as though he was going to interrupt her, _“and then once you know that you are good…”_ she left the sentence open but gave him a hopeful look.

She left her insinuation dangling tantalisingly in front of him.  He took the bait. _“Home soon then?”_

She giggled quietly.  “S _top being so desperate!”_

He jumped to defend himself.  _“I’m not desperate.  It’s been two months!”_ He was grumbling now, _“I just thought we’d have the weekend together before seeing anyone.”_ He was in danger of letting his annoyance creep back in to his voice. _“We haven’t even had 24 hours.  First Humphrey and now this…”_ He caught her look, realised what he’d said and backtracked _.  “And_ _this is nice._ She looked as though she was about to retaliate so he cut in again.  “ _No, it is, honestly.  I’m just…tired.  I’d quite like to go to bed…”_ he gave her a look that told her in no uncertain terms that he’d quite like it if she was there too.

_“Well if you’re that ‘tired’then there’s a spare room just down the hall.  I’m sure we could have a quick lie down…”_ He frowned at her, hitching his top lip up to show his disgust and she laughed. _“You are such a prude!”_

_“I’m not a prude!”_  

She tried to look annoyed at him then admitted defeat, giving him an exasperated smile before it morphed into a snort of laughter. 

_“You are the most annoying_...” her voice was becoming a little too loud and Richard shushed her. 

He was laughing now and in the kitchen Juliet was now giving Catherine a more intense version of the same look that told her again that they now definitely shouldn’t be listening.  Catherine nodded her agreement and moved to turn off the monitor.  Her hand stopped over the off button when she heard him tentatively ask:

_“Are you sure I was meant to come tonight?  It’s just, they all seemed a bit surprised to see me.  Fidel even said it was a surprise.”_

The women in the kitchen shared a worried look, concerned that they were on the verge of being busted 

Upstairs, Camille shrugged.  _“That’s what Juliet said.”_  She laughed again, _“I think they were more surprised by your explanation of why you were over here.”_

_“It was a room full of people.  What did you want me to say?”_

_“Something a little more believable than ‘I missed the island so thought I’d come and see you all.’”_

Catherine smiled at her daughter’s impression of Richard.

_“Hmmmm.”_   He was clearly agreeing with her.  A small noise came from the crib and they heard a sudden intake of breath.  Then,

_“What are you doing?”_

_“Shhh, hiding so he can’t see me.”_

She couldn’t stop giggling. _“Richard, he’s three weeks old, he can’t see you anyway and he is most definitely asleep.”_   They heard another thump, Richard had clearly pulled her to the floor. She was trying desperately to stop her giggles. 

He hushed her again, _“shhh, Camille.  You’ll wake the baby.”_ They heard a kiss, some rustling.  Then, _“Absolutely not!  This is Fidel’s bedroom!”_

She giggled again.  _“You **are** a prude!  We should probably go downstairs then.”_

They heard more protestations about him not being a prude before he said hopefully, _“downstairs and then home?”_

_“No, we’ve been here for 10 minutes. Downstairs and socialise.”_

***

At this both Catherine and Juliet threw themselves into work, bundling the monitor into a drawer, manically washing and drying the detritus caused by their earlier guests.  But Richard and Camille took their time, waylaid by people finishing their drinks and leaving as they made their way to the kitchen.  They finally made an appearance with Fidel in tow. 

“Richard!  Well this is a surprise!”  Catherine had a tea towel in her hands trying her best to look nonchalant. 

Richard nodded, not quite knowing what to say.  She continued cheekily.  “So tell me, what are you doing out here?”

He had been about to bluff again about how much he missed the island, but Camille gave him a gentle nudge.   “Um...I um...Camille...we, um...you know...” he cleared his throat and looked at the ground, willing Catherine to understand.  

She understood only too well, but thought it would be more fun if she didn’t.  “I’m sorry Richard?”  He now looked to Camille for support.

He cleared his throat again and sighed, scratching at his ear.  “I came to see Camille.” 

“Oh.  Why?” 

“Maman!  You know why, stop embarrassing him.”

Camille took his hand and Catherine looked a little chastened, but not much.  “Would you like a drink Richard?  I’m afraid that there isn’t any tea.”  Richard seemed about to suggest that there should definitely have been tea if she knew he was coming, but she cut him off with “beer?”

He took it.  “Thank you.”  He squeezed Camille’s hand gently then dropped it, and leant against the kitchen side. 

“Are you here long?”

“A week.”

“Just a week?”  He wondered where she was going with this.  “Shouldn’t you two be making the most of things?”  Richard went bright red and choked on his beer, as Catherine continued.  “You know, relax, take in some of the sights of the island.”  The choking stopped but his blush remained as she gave him a thinly veiled look. 

There came the sound of an infant’s cry.  To Richard’s mind it sounded much closer than the bedroom upstairs but then what did he know?  He watched mildly confused as Juliet and Catherine exchanged nervous glances, then relaxed a little as Fidel shouted from the stairs to let them know he was going to deal with it and the crying ceased. 

Until Fidel’s voice started coming out of the knife drawer.

“Shhhh baby boy.  It’s ok...” the crying was now replaced by Fidel’s voice, also coming from the drawer.

“Maman, what is that?”

Richard had gone ashen white, “Oh God.”  Camille was looking at him.  “It’s a monitor.”

“A monitor?”  It started to dawn on her, but she asked anyway.  “Why is it in the drawer?”

His jaw had set as she spoke through his teeth.  “Because they heard us coming into the kitchen and couldn’t think of anything else to do with it, Camille.” 

Camille was glaring at her mother who was doing her level best to look innocent and failing miserably. 

Richard, to his credit was trying _his_ level best to ignore the situation entirely, but a thought had just occurred to him.  “Sorry, Catherine.  But if you found out about me and Camille tonight, via that,” he indicated the drawer the voices were coming from, “then why did you ask Camille to bring me?  How did you know I was even here?  At this, Catherine’s face gave her away entirely.  He thought he understood.  He cast a wary eye at Juliet then turned to Camille. “What did Juliet say on the phone again?”

“She asked me to bring you.”  He gave her a look that demanded more of her memory.  She dutifully retreated to the afternoon’s call, dredging through her conversation with Juliet.  She looked at him with the dawning of understanding.  “She said to bring the Inspector.”

And there it was.  The wrong Inspector.  He was surprised by how crushed he felt at the fact that they hadn’t wanted him.  At their preference for Humphrey. 

He was nodding, disheartened by how completely taken in he had been by their hospitality.  Hospitality it seemed that hadn’t been intended for him.  For a moment he was seven again: invited to a peer’s birthday party, not because he had been wanted, but because his parents hadn’t wanted him to be the only one left out. 

He pushed away from the side he was leaning against, trying to conceal the bitterness that he was feeling, angry that in Catherine’s eyes at least he would never be good enough for Camille.  Feeling that to a certain extent she was probably right.  Self doubt was beginning to ruin him again.  Clearing his throat and pulling himself together, he addressed the three women now standing in front of him.  Years of practice allowed him to rein his temper in from the edge, becoming a mask of placidity again, at least for now.  Only his eyes remained a testament to his anger and hurt at such a blatant intrusion of their privacy.  “I’m sorry…I’m feeling rather tired.”  He turned to Juliet, wishing that his smile was as genuine as his words were sincere, “thank you for the drink.  He really is sweet.” 

Turning to Catherine, he allowed some of his anger to creep back in, blunting it with his usual bleak humour, “try not to look too disappointed Catherine.” 

Finally, it was Camille’s turn.  “Shall I wait or see you at home?” 

Her reply was a perfunctory, “I’m coming.”


	21. Exorcising the Past

“Richard?” 

He had got his wish, they had left the party and were alone.  But the walk home had been awkward.  Not for him, she sensed, he had barely registered her existence, but for her.  He hadn’t acknowledged her taking his hand, hadn’t bothered to measure his step so it was in time with hers.  He had just assumed that she would fall in with him. 

She had been hoping for a walk on the beach, even though she knew he would have hated it, anything to have injected some romance back into the evening.  But he had set a military like pace in the direction of home and she had followed meekly, not quite knowing how to broach the events of the evening they had just had. 

So here they were, back at home, on their own.  But she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was the only one really there, that he hadn’t quite come back with her. 

He raised an eyebrow at hearing his name.  At least she had his attention.  “Is everything ok?”  He nodded gently, but drifted away from her again, his eyes open but unseeing.  He seemed lost, his entire thought process taken up with something that she wasn’t part of.  She tried again.  “What are you thinking about?”  His eyes focused back on her for a moment before he smiled, shrugging and a very quiet “doesn’t matter,” escaped from his mouth. 

She made a tentative reach for his hand seeking to offer reassurance to what she thought might be worrying him.  “Maman’s not disappointed Richard.  Just surprised.” 

He nodded and she realised that in spite of everything, he actually didn’t care what her mother thought.  That something else might be bothering him.  She searched around for another angle.  Work?  Moving?  She remembered their conversation in the bedroom.

“Richard?  Is it your childhood?  I didn’t mean to pry…”  He smiled bleakly.  He looked so sad that it brought to mind another moment above Benjie’s cot that he had been quick to cover up.  She tried again.

“Is it children?”  He didn’t say anything and despite his indifference she saw the breath stick in his throat.  “I was only teasing.  We don’t have to have one.  Not if you don’t want to.”  She hoped that he would disagree with her.  If she was giving up her job and moving countries for him then that was definitely one thing she did want.   

He looked at her, properly, almost for the first time since leaving the party.  All traces of the playfulness that she loved so much had given way to complete sincerity.  “I want children.”  Not for the first time that evening did his voice hold something akin to regret.  She moved to him, holding their eye contact, willing him to continue.  He didn’t.  He was closed off to her, impregnable. 

Her thumb ran across his first knuckle, then stopped as she remembered his earlier worry.  “You will be an amazing father.”  He shook his head, unable to agree with her.  “Why don’t you believe that?” 

Camille’s words went unheard, replaced by someone else’s, Richard’s voice giving them new life as they ran tirelessly through his mind.  They had been running for years, behind every failed attempt at work and love there had always been those three sentences.  Taunting him, rendering him useless.  Worthless.  Empty. 

He was brought back to earth by her voice again.  “Richard?”

He shrugged.  “Just something someone said once.”  Judging by the look on her face she wasn’t going to let it go.  He knew she wasn’t.  There shouldn’t be any secrets between them, he knew that.  And yet, he was loathed to discuss this with her.  It should stay buried.  There was no point bringing it up when there was nothing that could be done. 

He sighed deeply.  “Back at university _..._ I was with someone, and I…we…made a mistake, she got um...she... she had....she got rid of it.”  He wasn’t really sure how to continue but judging by the look of shock on Camille’s face he was aware that at this moment she might not be seeing him in the best light and he hated that idea.  He continued quickly in an effort to absolve himself of years’ worth of guilt and shame.  “She didn’t tell me.  I mean, she told me afterwards.  Just assumed I wouldn’t want it.”  He looked forlornly at the floor, hating the idea that he had never known the sex of his child, that he still had to refer to it without gender.  He was doing everything to actively avoid looking at her.  He shrugged.  “She said I wasn’t ready to be a father and that she wasn’t sure if I would ever be ready.  I was too... _me.”  H_ e sighed again as Camille’s hand tightened around his fingers.

She sat in silence, waiting for him to come back to her.  A corner of his lip was hitched up wistfully, mourning the past that he had tried so hard to forget.  He finally managed to look at her, knowing that he was unable to dwell further on something that had happened so long ago.  _Half a lifetime ago_ he reminded himself _._ He smiled sadly.“He’d be twenty.  Or she.”  He shook his head, slipping back into melancholy, the smile fading quickly and she suddenly understood what had encouraged his shift in mood.  Their earlier conversation over the crib came back in flickering form, of imagining their children fully grown.  “And they don’t exist because I wasn’t good enough.”  He gave a huff of bleak laughter.  “I would have married her.  Not because of the baby.  Just because...” 

“Because you loved her?” 

He shook his head.  “I thought I did.  But we never said it.  Maybe that’s why she did it.  Perhaps she knew it was just an infatuation.  But I would have married her all the same.”  A small drab smile touched his lips again at the idea of being taken in so completely by his first proper relationship.  

“You can’t blame her Richard.  She was young and scared.  You both were.”

“I don’t.  But you asked me what I was thinking about.  I don’t want to hide anything from you.”  He tried to shake himself out of his melancholy.  “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know really.  Ruining the evening?”  Some of the old flippant Richard was back. 

She returned his small smile.  “I started it.  Maman helped, _then_ you ruined it.”  His smile grew a little.  She kissed his cheek.  “I love you.”  He nodded his agreement with her statement, but nothing further materialised despite the friendly and coercive nudge she gave him. 

They sat in silence, Camille’s understanding of the man next to her growing steadily: his sensitivity, his sense of honour and the burden of guilt he still mistakenly carried.  She remembered too his almost obsessive like worry over contraception until she had moved to a more regular solution for them both.   A thought suddenly occurred to her.

“Is that why you like watching the little boy in the park?”  He nodded, remembering how much he had wanted to belong.  She kissed his cheek gently.  “You will be a wonderful father.”  Her reiteration brought forth a firmer smile as she snuggled in to him.  “You can answer all those stupid science questions about why the sky is blue.”  He looked as if he was about to tell her the answer, but she ignored him and continued.  “And you hate ‘popular’ music.”  She was mimicking him, mocking him.  “You’ll always be telling them to turn it down.”   His smile almost turned into a small laugh.  “And you can be very stern when you need to be...” 

“Am I scary?”  He almost looked hopeful.

She laughed in his face, then realised he was being serious.  “Oh.  No.  Sorry.”  She looked a little sheepish at his raised eyebrow and incredulous expression at her cheek.  “Do you find me scary?”

“Only when I don’t do what you say.”  She was beaming at him, and he wondered briefly if he should return the compliment.  If he should tell her what a good mother he thought she would make: strong and loving and fiercely loyal.

But the moment had passed, she had moved on.  “Are you ok about Maman?”

He felt the despondency that had been caused by Catherine’s hope for a different suitor for her daughter, ebb away in light of Camille’s understanding and support.  In its place he found an ambivalence that he hadn’t known before.  “It’s going to take more than your mother’s disapproval to put me off you, Camille.” 

“She doesn’t disapprove.”

“No, you’re right.  She’s just disappointed.”

She huffed, “I told you, she’s not disappointed.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure she prefers the older, grumpier version of your younger, friendlier, better looking boss.”

“I don’t care what she likes.  _I_ prefer the older, grumpier version.  And I don’t think he’s better looking.”

“Not even with all that floppy hair?”

She chewed her lip in teasing thought.  “Now you mention it, he does have good hair.  You know, I hadn’t really noticed it before.  But I do like the way it blows in the wind...”

He picked up a cushion and tried clouting her around the head with it.  She batted it away effortlessly. 

“Yes, well, there’s someone in England that I quite like too, so...”

“Oh really?” 

“Yup.”

“What’s her name?”

His eyes immediately shot to the ceiling, desperately trying to think of a girl’s name.  Emily?  No, that was his mother’s name, it was too obvious.  He went through the names of his team, but he had talked about them with Camille and she would pick up on that straight away too. 

“Olivia.”

“Olivia?”  She made sure that the name was heavily accented.

“Yes, Olivia.”  He corrected her enunciation to English and wondered if arguing about names and pronunciation would be a big part of their future.

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Oh ok, well maybe you can introduce me when I’m next over there sorting out my new job.”

“Fine, I wi...” he didn’t finish his sentence.  “Your new job’s in England? 

“I told you I wanted to talk to you about it.”  She was smiling widely, enjoying his temporary look of confusion.

“I thought you were looking at France?”

“Would you rather I went to France?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good.  Because I’ve been speaking to the MET.”

He couldn’t contain his surprise.  “But they’re not recruiting.”

“Well I got in contact with your boss...”

“Wicken?”  He was looking utterly confused. 

“Yes, Wicken,” she gave him a look that clearly told him to shut up until she had finished, he decided that it was probably best to obey, “and he put me in touch with your HR department.  And apparently they need French speakers in Central London.  Something about good relations between the two countries.  And I am a member of the EU and fluent in French.  So, all in all I’m perfect.  But I think you already knew that.”  She was smiling sweetly at him.

“And you’ve been offered a job?”  

“Yes.”  Her bravado began to falter a little.  “So now I just need to resign and tell Maman I’m moving, put all my things in storage or pack and rent this place,” she looked around her.  “Unless you want me to sell?”

His voice was placating.  “You don’t need to sell, bearing in mind that we already have a house in London...and I can make a second bedroom.  Move all those books out...”   She nodded, gently noting that Richard already considered his home to be hers as well.  “Maybe we should keep it in case we want to move back here?” 

“Even if we won’t be able to fit in it?”

“How many children are you planning on having, Camille?”  She grinned naughtily and shrugged, implying it was as much his decision as hers. 

They drifted back into a comfortable silence, each to their own thoughts.  He thought ironically about how he’d gone from having the chance of being a very young parent to almost missing the boat.  But it was an opportunity that he was grateful to have, regardless of how old he would be this time around. 

She had found her way on to his lap and Richard wondered how it would feel to have their child curled up there instead.  Probably a bit like having a lap dog, he thought idly.  His rolled his eyes heavenward in disbelief at his errant inner monologue and focused on her conversation. 

“Why can’t you talk to me like this on the phone?”  He shrugged an apology but knew it wasn’t something that he would ever be able to change.  She had been about to tease him for being so useless, but stopped herself in light of their earlier conversation.  

“So, I suppose the next thing is how to talk to your mother?”

She groaned.  “Oh God.”

“Do you still want me to come with you?”  She drew a breath but didn’t answer.  “I don’t have to, I can be nearby if that helps?”

She grimaced quickly.  “I think after tonight it might be better to talk to her one on one, she might want a few more details first.”  She was hoping for a reaction, eyes sparkling with humour.  When she received nothing she suddenly felt guilty for not having the guts to do what she should have done as soon as she had returned home.  “But maybe you could stay close and afterwards we could tell her about moving together?” 

He nodded.  Tomorrow was going to be a long day.


	22. Coming Clean

She had waved brightly at her mother before leading Richard to a table in the shade.  Waiting for him to sit she motioned that she would join him in a couple of minutes and moved away, leaving him to wonder just how much he had been manipulated in this instance and how quickly it would take Catherine to realise that he was on his own.  The familiar feeling of dread settled in his stomach. 

As it turned out, not long.  It was 30 seconds before she was standing in front of him. 

“Catherine!”  He at least owed it to Camille to be friendly despite his feelings to the contrary.  She sat down without being asked and he motioned to the chair.  “No, please do sit down.”  She narrowed her eyes in exactly the same way that her daughter did and he hid a grimace remembering that perhaps Catherine wasn’t as tolerant of his sarcasm as her daughter was.    

She sat studying him and he felt himself begin to diminish under her scrutiny.  When it became clear that he wasn’t going to start the conversation she sighed and leant forward.  He in turn leant a little further back. 

“I’m not disappointed.”  He rolled his eyes, and it was Catherine’s turn to be amused at how alike he and Camille were.  “Surprised,” she conceded, “but not disappointed.”   He was becoming uncomfortable, a trait she so enjoyed and sought to exploit further.  “You’re a good man Richard.  I don’t understand you, but as long as Camille is happy then nothing else matters.  Not to me anyway.”  Richard was studiously examining the horizon, trying his best to blot her out, if there was one thing worse than someone shouting at him, it was this.  But she wouldn’t be cowed, and not for the first time did Richard curse the fact that the Bordey women were so unremitting when they had a subject to get their teeth in to.  She was still talking, “and I’m sorry about last night.  It was wrong of me.”

“Yes it was.”  He was curt because he was still unsure of what it was that Catherine had heard.  If he hadn’t been so hot the small blush forming on his cheeks would have been much more noticeable. 

She saw Camille returning to the table and offered him a parting shot as she rose again, ready to move to back the bar, “And I wouldn’t mind if Camille was pregnant.”  She let that sink in for him, relishing the tiny patch of red bloom in to something larger.  “Just don’t take her away from me too soon.”  She smiled as she left and Richard nodded, swallowing hard, hoping that his last action had gone unnoticed as he was left squirming in his seat. 

***

Catherine’s retreat to the bar had been a timely part of her plan and although feeling genuinely guilty about her eavesdropping the night before, it wasn’t enough to make her turn down an opportunity to study them both so openly now.  She watched as he shifted his chair away from the bar so that he was now facing the view; saw Camille return; run her fingers lightly though his hair; saw his shrug of annoyance; his hand catching hers; his head bob towards the bar, indicating his discomfort with such a public display of affection.  She saw her daughter’s fond smile, her kiss on his temple. 

She saw intimacy. 

She pretended to busy herself with polishing the bar, fetching drinks.  But out of the corner of her eye she saw the continuous small touches between them, the adoring looks that he sent her daughter’s way when he thought she wasn’t looking, the pouting when he disagreed with her, the way he let her tease him. 

After a time she stopped watching, and was rewarded by Camille winding her way over to the bar.   “Can I have a mango juice please Maman?”

Catherine poured it, moving towards a table to ensure they had some privacy.  Settling herself she turned to her daughter, sincere for the first time with her approval.  “It’s nice to see you happy.”  Camille smiled and nodded and Catherine was further amused to see that as Richard had picked up her eye roll, she had done the same with his half smile.

“You know Camille, this does explain a lot.”  She continued at her daughter’s raised eyebrow, “the men’s clothing in your bedroom...”  Camille knew that she was referring to the night of the hurricane.

“Maman!  They were in my drawer!  I can’t believe you were snooping!”

“I wasn’t snooping.  I saw men’s toiletries in the bathroom and I wanted to investigate.”

“Richard’s things were in the bathroom _cupboard_.”

Catherine shrugged.  “You ran out of soap...”  Camille stuck her jaw out in annoyance, finally understanding her mother’s lecture that night as a clumsy way to obtain information.  But she couldn’t stop the smile as her mother carried on, “I just couldn’t work out who it was.  I thought...”

“You thought it was Humphrey.”

“Can you blame me?  He’s been keen on you for a while.”

She sighed.  “I know.  It’s been difficult.”  She gave her mother a meaningful look.

“And I haven’t helped?” 

“No you haven’t.  You have to be careful talking about it.  Richard doesn’t like me working with Humphrey as it is.”

“Why? Humphrey is lovely.”

_Yes he is_ , mused Camille.  But it was still difficult to work with him.  She debated her opening line of explanation.  “Do you remember when I went to Guadeloupe a couple of months ago?” 

“Yes, you went to see Sophie!”  It was a typically exuberant response from her mother.

Camille shook her head.  “I went to London.  Something happened with Humphrey and I needed to see Richard.”  She saw her mother giving her a disapproving look, and realised how that must have sounded.  “No, nothing like that!  Richard and I weren’t even together then.”  She was becoming embarrassed.  Since when did she find it so difficult to share details of her private life with her mother?  “Humphrey tried to kiss me...”

“And it made you realise you loved Richard.” Camille thanked her lucky stars that her mother was at least quick on the uptake.  “So you flew all that way to London to tell him.  Oh Camille, that is so romantic!”  Camille thought about correcting her mother but didn’t want to waste time explaining that that first afternoon, with her nerves and misunderstanding had been anything but romantic.  “Was he jealous?” 

“More...angry.”  She clarified in case her mother got the wrong idea, “with Humphrey, not with me.”

Catherine nodded and tried pushing further.  “Is he different in private?  Is he...romantic?”

“Maman!”

“I’m just asking!  You used to tell me these things you know.”  Camille was shaking her head, grinning broadly so Catherine tried a different tact.  “Did he give you those shoes you were wearing last night?”  She saw the look her daughter was giving her.  “Yes I noticed them, it was hard not to!”  Camille nodded, grinning as Catherine surmised, “he loves you.”  It was a statement but Camille continued to nod all the same. 

“You know, I always thought there was something between you.  There was this tension...  But then he left and you seemed fine.  So I thought...”

“You thought you’d imagined it.” 

Catherine shrugged. “But I didn’t did I...?”  Camille was the picture of innocence.  “Camille...”  The innocent facade was beginning to slip. “So, London wasn’t the first time?”  Her daughter was grinning, all pretence at virtue thrown to the wind. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice.  You and Richard, under my nose!”  Camille had gone back to looking guilty and her mother sighed.  “When did it happen?” 

The grin turned into a grimace as she wrinkled her nose.  She didn’t mind discussing her relationship with her mother but wasn’t all that comfortable admitting that at the start it was little more than a one night stand.

“Oh Camille.”  It was said with disappointment this time.  “I can’t believe I brought you up to behave like that.”

“Maman, it’s Richard!”  She had been about to add that Richard certainly wouldn’t have been a willing participant unless it had meant something to him but stopped when she realised that it would make her look even worse in her mother’s eyes for seducing him and that he would hate her talking to her mother about him like that.  

“So when?”

“On Friday, when I was driving him to the airport.”

“In the car?”  Catherine’s disapproval weighed heavy in her voice.

“No Maman!  I told him I was disappointed that he’d never asked me out and he kissed me.”  Camille thought that the situation was salvageable, if she could only get the next sentence right.  “We kept in touch when he was back in London and...” she shrugged the end of her sentence as if to say _and here we are_.  Her mother didn’t need to know that he had changed his flights to stay with her for the weekend.

It had worked, her mother’s thunderous look dissipated as she exclaimed “Oh that is romantic!”  Catherine reached across and took her hand, squeezing it gently.  She glanced over her shoulder.  “You know he’s watching us.”       

“He’s nervous.” 

“Nervous?  About us talking?” 

Camille paused, unsure how to begin the conversation that she knew would break her mother’s heart.  “Maman, I...”  the hand on top of hers tightened reflexively.  “I want to be with him.”  Her mother was nodding sadly, realising the inevitable.  “We want to be together.  But he can’t come back.”

“He said he’d move back?” 

Camille was nodding.  “But he’s a DCI now,” her voice was tinged with pride.  “He talked about resigning, but I don’t think that’s practical. 

Catherine’s squeezing stopped and she patted her daughter’s hand twice, letting it lie there, still, the calm before the storm.  She smiled sadly, “I thought he was joking when he said he was taking you to London.  I thought I’d have more time.”  She waited until she had Camille’s full attention.  “How long do I have?”

“I can start as soon as in a month or up to three.”

“You have a job?”  She took a moment to digest the news.  “Have you told Humphrey?”

“Not yet.  I wanted you to know first.  I won’t go if you don’t want me to.  We can work something else out.  He can still resign...” 

Catherine cupped Camille’s face with her free hand, stroking her thumb across her cheek. “Oh cherie.  Since when have you ever asked for my opinion when you have set your mind to something?”

“I can stay.”

“But you won’t,” she said sadly.  “And I don’t want you to stay for your old Maman.”  She took a deep breath, resigned.  “If you want to make me happy then go.  Have your English babies with your English husband.”

Camille was blinking frantically, trying to stop the brimming tears.  “We might not get married...he might not ask me.”

Catherine gave her a disbelieving look.  “Well as long as I have my grandbabies I don’t care.”  Camille laughed, dabbing gently in the corners of her eyes, checking her makeup before glancing over at Richard to indicate that she needed him.  He rose immediately, taking a seat next to her. 

“So, it seems you’re taking my little girl away from me Richard.”  Richard thought it best not to point out that she was hardly little anymore, but he settled for a more generic apology.  It was one of those rare occasions where he looked genuinely contrite. 

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, without her voice betraying her, but she conveyed everything to him that she needed to with one look.  Finally she managed to croak out, “champagne!  We should celebrate!” and left them, indicating to Camille that she definitely did not want to be followed.  

Richard looked at Camille.  “Are you ok?” 

“No.  But I’ll be fine.”  She rested her head on his shoulder.  “Do you think one of us should tell Maman that 11am is too early to celebrate anything with champagne?” 

He smiled into her hair.  “After the look I’ve just been given I don’ think I have a choice.  And it might make a beach trip more bearable...”

“You want to go to the beach?”  Her mood began to lift at his small admission.

“Not really.  But I know it helps you think.”  She kissed his cheek.  He clarified, “I’m not taking my shirt off.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”  She was privately thinking that she didn’t want anyone to see him without his clothes on.  That was hers and hers alone. 


	23. A Day Out

Camille had, at the very least insisted that they go home so that Richard could change. And so he found himself feeling very self conscious, wearing his only pair of shorts, on one of Saint Marie’s public beaches. Camille had refused one of the more exclusive resort beaches because they felt so alien to her. Richard privately translated this as there being too many white people and not enough locals, which was of course the exact reason why he wanted to go there. Where else would a pale, pasty, uptight and uncomfortable Englishman find acceptance?

And so, here they were. Richard sitting uncomfortably on the end of a sun lounger, both feet planted firmly on the ground, his fingers clutching a book close to him for protection, feeling as much out of place here as he ever had done. He surveyed the masses of people in their beach attire and swim wear and wondered not for the first time how they could so easily open themselves up to the judgement of others by wearing so few clothes.

“You know, you’d find it more comfortable if you lay on it...”

“No, I’m much more comfortable sitting, thank you.” She rolled her eyes from behind her sunglasses and Richard glanced over again at the impossibly long legs sheathed in contrastingly short shorts as she lay appealingly before him. The top button of those shorts had been left enticingly undone and he could see the matching blue of her bikini bottoms peeking through the small v that the open zipper had created. He didn’t want to go any higher, but there was something magnetic about that expanse of skin, toned and flat, inviting him. He was losing the fight, he didn’t want to look at her breasts: they were at the beach. There were children on the beach. 

He managed to wrench his eyes back to the sea, furtively casting his eyes around him, trying to ascertain if anyone had been offended by his very open appreciation of his girlfriend’s body. He heard her mocking him, “do you want to go home Richard?” 

He ignored her and opened his book, taking care not to crack the spine, taking pleasure in the un-creased, perfect pages under his fingers, the musty smell it gave off which told him he was its first owner. He also heard the creak of her sunbed and knew he wasn’t going to get much further than the first couple of sentences. And then she was there, kneeling at his feet, removing his book from his hands, pinning his page in position with her finger.

“ _Lords of Finance. The Bankers Who Broke The World_.” He could just see the corner of a raised eyebrow from behind her lenses. She opened the book to where he had been reading and read aloud, “Chapter Two, A Strange and Lonely Man.” She took off her sunglasses and fixed him with a look that said it all. The irony was not lost on him. “This is your holiday reading?”

“It’s interesting.”

“So interesting that you have been looking at me for the past few minutes?” He hadn’t realised it had been so long. “Why don’t you lie down Richard? Relax? 

He realised that he had been staring at her bikini top and became flustered. “No, I’m fine sitting.” He was curt and Camille was beginning to lose patience with him. She made a grab for his foot, attempting to remove his shoe and sock amid much protest. “Stop treating me like a child! I’m perfectly capable of removing my own footwear!”

She ignored him and tightened her grip, removing first the left then the right, planting his feet back on the sand. “Better?”

He didn’t say anything but it was obvious that it was. He flexed his toes in the sand, watching with concealed glee the way the sand bled away under his pressure.

“Sunglasses.” It was a statement and one which garnered his attention. She had removed them from his shirt front, holding them up in front of him almost threateningly. Resistance was useless. She slid them over his ears, then reached down again to the sand, fumbling for his hat. That too was plopped on his head. Annoying though it was to admit it, Richard really was beginning to feel better. The glare of the sun and the intensive heat had been harnessed somewhat. He managed a small smile in gratitude, which faded quickly when she saw her hands on the buttons of his shirt. The first two had already been conquered. 

“You promised!”

“I’m not taking it off. I’m just loosening it for you. It will feel less hot this way.” It was true that a small breeze was already tickling his skin, but he was loathed to give in to her this easily. His fingers did one button back up in protest.

As a final act of rebellion she tried pushing him backwards. Not down. She knew he wasn’t relaxed enough for that yet. She started by widening his legs, ensuring that they would fit either side of the lounger, before gently lowering herself on the end of the sun bed herself, taking the spot he had just vacated, admonishing him gently to “move back!”

“Camille...?”

“I need some suncream.” She leant down to the sand, picking up the bottle at his feet, reading the bottle with mocking disgust. “Factor 50? No wonder you’re so white.” She made a long arm for her bag handing the bottle behind her in to his waiting hand 

He found himself mimicking her. “Factor 10? It’s hardly worth putting it on!”

“It may have escaped your notice Richard, but I’m black.” She heard him muttering something about why she was bothering at all and snapped, “do you want me to get cancer?” The whinging stopped immediately as he busied himself with taking the lid off.

In the days when he was working on Saint Marie, this whole scenario would have been inconceivable. He was on a beach, in shorts, rubbing suncream into the supple skin of a barely clothed Camille. He watched his hands work over her, the cream disappearing quickly leaving a glistening sheen in its wake. He studied the nape of her neck, massaging the short nub of bone that was the top of her spine. She looked so vulnerable sitting in front of him, head bowed, physically exposed. He dropped a kiss in place of his fingers, his hands finding their rightful place around her waist and wondered when he had become so comfortable with himself that this was acceptable.

It was a moment of bliss and one which he would have been content to see continue for the entire afternoon. But it was short lived as he saw a small green and black blur career towards them.

“Auntie Cami!” Richard removed his hands faster than he’d ever done anything in his life, shooting backwards at least a foot to ensure that there was a decent amount of space between them as Rosie slammed into Camille, enveloping her in a tight hug.

“Rosie, you remember Richard.” Camille had managed to extricate herself and was now kneeling on the sand, holding on to the little girl who Richard could now see was wearing a bright green swim suit. Both large and small looked equally uncomfortable at their re-acquaintance.

“Hello Rosie.” She nodded shyly at him. “Um. How are you?” She stood on a level with him, unblinking. He gave Camille the type of look to convey he felt entirely useless.

She said something unintelligible to Richard but Camille served as translator. “No, he’s not still your Papa’s boss. He’s a friend.” That seemed to lift the girl’s spirits and she offered Richard a shy smile. “Where is Papa, Rosie?”

She pointed behind her into the wide expanse of beach. Camille scanned the people beginning to amass but couldn’t see anyone that resembled Fidel. “I’ll go and find him.” She looked at Richard. “Will you be ok?”

He gave her the kind of look that said he certainly wouldn’t be ok, but she ignored him and left.

He watched her vanishing figure with some trepidation before finally realising that for the next few minutes at least he was to be the sole guardian of this toddler. _Was she even a toddler?_ He tried to do a brief calculation to find her age, but was struggling to remember when exactly she had been born. Was it really so long ago? He was brought out of his musings when he saw Rosie reach towards him, taking the book from him. Her lip curled in distaste at the lack of colourful images on the front. She threw it in the sand.

“Rosie!”

Her eyes opened wide again in innocence at the admonishment and Richard sighed. “You’re probably right. It is, as your Auntie Camille would say, a very boring book.” Rosie smiled at him and proceeded to bury it, heaping scoopfuls of sand over the dust jacket. Richard thought about stopping her, chastising her. But the look of sheer joy on her face stayed his tongue and instead he allowed a broad smile to settle on his face, sliding on to the end of the sunbed again, unconsciously digging his own toes beneath the shifting mass.

She stopped what she was doing, captivated by the whiteness of his feet and stretched out her finger. Pausing before their skins touched, she looked up at him, big shy brown eyes looking for reassurance and permission. He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile and her finger made contact with the top of his foot. Her mouth formed a small _oh_ of astonishment as she found that it felt exactly the same as hers. The _oh_ gave way to excitement again as she started burying his feet too, flicking and scraping sand over them, building walls up around his ankles. She watched them crumble and fall as he wriggled his toes, giggling joyously as she began to grab small fistfuls, letting it run through her fingers as she sprinkled it over the top of his feet. She continued until she grew bored, finding new interest in the hair that covered his toes, pinching one between her thumb and forefinger and pulling sharply.

“Ow!” She looked startled but then started giggling uncontrollably, reaching out for another. “No. Rosie...”   It was no good: she had a taste for mischief as she plucked again. There was nothing for it but to stand, moving his feet out of harm’s way. She did the same, thinking he was about to give chase and ran from him screaming, stopping after ten feet, turning back to make sure that he was following her. When she saw that he wasn’t she looked aggrieved, sticking out her bottom lip and pouting. It was a master class in bolshiness. He took a conciliatory step towards her, which only seemed to start her giggling again. And Richard thought he’d never heard anything so free or so pure. He lost himself in the moment and took another step. A more meaningful step: his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted into a set determined line, his arms bent out in front of him.

The chase was on.

She squealed and ran, Richard staying a moment to ensure her headstart before making after her, dodging through families on the beach, towels on the sand and cool boxes holding cold beers, roaring and laughing as he did so. He finally caught up with her, his hands looping under her arms, fingers flexing, instinctively tickling her until her laughter came in wheezes and he knew that it would be cruel to continue.

Now without purpose he began to feel self conscious. He’d just been chasing a child on the beach. He wondered how he looked to a casual observer. She was patently not his and yet he had hunted her through day trippers and holidaymakers alike. He looked around him: no one seemed to have batted an eye lid. Feeling a small hand loop into his and looked down to find Rosie smiling shyly up at him. He returned it, something he instantly regretted as she took it as confirmation that he wanted to join her for a paddle. Pulling him with much more strength than he would ever have credited a child of her size with he found himself ankle deep in the water before he had time to think of an excuse. He had been expecting pain, his one memory of the sea at Saint Marie was of inexorable pain. Bracing himself for the searing and stabbing sting of his memory he was surprised when he only felt the gentle cool and massage of the water. It didn’t feel bad. It felt...refreshing. Relaxing. He watched Rosie paddle away searching for shells, apparently happy leaving him to his own devices now that she had achieved her mission. She waded in and out of the gentle surf, occasionally returning to present him with one of her discoveries which he dutifully pocketed for later.

Another hand slipped into his and he turned to see Camille had joined him. They watched Rosie for another few minutes, occasionally calling her in to the shallows where it was safer.

“You’re good at it.” The look he gave her said that he wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “Being a parent.” She clarified. “I’ve been watching you.”

He found it ironic that he had been worried about other beach users judging him when he should have been looking for Camille. “I thought you were meant to be finding Fidel?”

“I found him,” she said simply. “He’s watching our things.” Richard winced slightly at being stupid enough to walk away from Camille’s beach bag. “I told him to re-bury your book somewhere you couldn’t find it though...” He gave her a withering look. “What? Rosie has good taste when it comes to your books. Burying that one is something I should have done.”

“And what would you have me read instead? One of your magazines perhaps? I could read about the rise and fall of skirt lengths over the past decade.” He feigned excitement.

“That’s not what...never mind.” She didn’t want to ruin the moment. “I thought you didn’t mind what length my skirt was, as long as long as it came off?”

He raised an eyebrow at her flirting, then changed the subject. “You never know, one of your magazines might actually teach me how to make that goat curry...” She jostled him with her elbow in light protest.

***

They made their way back to their towels and books and bags, Rosie excitedly pulling on Camille’s arm, eager to get back to her father. But as they got closer he became aware of another person standing with Fidel. A lanky, messy haired, rumpled looking man. _Why the hell did he seem to follow them everywhere?_ He heard Camille sigh quietly next to him, felt her stiffen as she became aware of the fact that she was wearing a bikini top. Neither one said anything, too polite to verbalise what the other was thinking. Rosie ran on.

“Do you want my shirt?”

She shook her head, smiling gently at the offer she knew he would have been loathed to make and bent her arm behind her. Retrieving a thin t shirt from the waistband of the back of her shorts, she pulled it quickly over her head shaking her head in amusement at Richard’s look of surprise. Taking his hand again they began the walk back to their loungers. 

***

She put on a cheery welcome at least, releasing his hand to give a small wave to the man who was making her life so complicated.

“Camille!” Richard saw Humphrey’s eyes flick over her taking in the flimsy material, his eyes roaming over the dip of her low round neck and the swell of her breasts within. “And um, yes...hello.” His greeting towards Richard was decidedly less enthusiastic.

“Humphrey.” It was an acknowledgement at best.

Humphrey was rambling, “just out for a walk…beautiful day...beautiful island!” Apparnetly his enthusiasm knew no bounds. He turned to Richard, “well of course you know that. Amazing.” His last exclamation was said to no one in particular as he gazed at the horizon, drinking in the view as if it was for the first time. He turned to smile at Camille, saw her hand reach for Richard’s again, saw him give it a quick squeeze. A gesture of solidarity and patience. The polite defiance that radiated from Richard caused Humphrey to be even friendlier. 

“Fidel says that you were at Benjie’s welcome party last night?” He didn’t wait for an affirmation. “I fell asleep, otherwise would have been there. Bit embarrassing really.” Richard cast an eye over the creased clothing and wondered if he had slept in his entire outfit. Humphrey was still talking. “Must go and see him at some point, probably need a present. Did you bring a present?” He was looking at Camille again who shook her head as the babbling continued. “What d’you buy a newborn though? No idea myself, never went down that route. Well you know that, obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Or maybe I would. I’d just have a child with me. Or not. No probably not.” Richard was wondering how someone could spout such a lengthy stream of conscience without thinking about what they were saying.  

Humphrey finally seemed to become aware of the fact that he hadn’t drawn breath. There was an awkward silence. One that Fidel didn’t seem to notice.

“You could come now sir?”

He seemed to have forgotten the reason for his monologue. “Sorry?”

“To see Benjie? Juliet might be feeding but she won’t mind.”

This threw Humphrey. “Feeding? You mean with her…?” He indicated the breast area, and Fidel smiled.

“Yes Sir,” Fidel was smiling, “but we can wait until she’s finished if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No, I’m not uncomfortable. Very comfortable with that sort of thing.” He realised he had been staring at Camille’s breasts and looked away hurriedly, studiously avoiding Richard’s eye as he did so. He took a step back and tripped on something in the sand almost losing his balance in the process. Bending down he retrieved Richard’s buried book. He read the front cover. _“Lords of Finance. The Bankers Who Broke The World._ God that sounds awful. No wonder they buried it.”He looked up to find Richard staring at him with a look of unmitigated dislike on his face and realised who the book must belong to. He made a valiant attempt to salvage the situation. “But then again, I’m sure it’s very interesting if you like that sort of thing…” Seeing Richard tense his jaw made him realise that the situation was unsalvageable. He turned back to Camille. “Will you be coming too? To see Benjie?”

She smiled gently. “We have plans.”        

“Oh, up to anything exciting?” He had forgotten himself again. Neither one said anything and there was another awkward silence for a brief moment where Richard wished he could be anywhere except there, before Humphrey realised what he had done. Images of the two of them kissing rushed in to his mind. Grateful that it was only kissing the images suddenly became decidedly more graphic in retaliation to his train of thought. _Well, thank you very much subconscious_ , he thought with some annoyance, but instead he said simply, “no, of course. Sorry. None of my business.”

The three of them stood staring at each other, polite friendliness and annoyance emanating from the two men. Bravado which Fidel was blissfully unaware of as he was being kept busy by Rosie’s latest collection of shells that she had taken back from Richard’s safe keeping at the shore line.

If it hadn’t been so awkward Camille would have laughed at their peacock show of masculinity. Instead she decided that she needed to be anywhere than where they currently were and cleared her throat. Humphrey’s head instantly flicked round.

“Um, Sir? I was wondering if I could come and see you in the office. Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Of course.” His mind shot back to the mildly sexist behaviour that he had subjected her to recently, not least culminating in him openly staring at her breasts not 30 seconds ago and wondered briefly whether she was about to launch a harassment case   “Is anything wrong? Is it something you want to talk about now?”

“No, tomorrow’s fine.” She was about to say a time but paused when she realised how precious her mornings were with Richard. She didn’t want to be too early. She lost herself for a moment in imagining the warmth of his torso, his bed hair, his lazy smile when she realised he was still waiting for her to continue. “Would 11.30 be ok?” That should give them enough time for a leisurely lie in and anything else that sprang to mind.

He noticed that she hadn’t answered his question and felt an uncomfortable lurch in the pit of his stomach.

“Sir?” He realised he hadn’t answered.

“Yes. Yes. 11.30. Fine. Of course. Fine.” There seemed nothing else to say. “Well, we should probably be…,” he indicated his departure, “yup…well…have fun!” He grimaced as he realised what he had said, but thankfully saw neither response as he turned strode off in to the tree line stopping out of sight to wait for Fidel, bunching his fists in frustration.


	24. Resignation

His heart rate increased with the sound of her impending footsteps. He’d been waiting for them all morning. He pushed his chair back in anticipation as she came in to view, his pen lying forgotten in front of him half buried in a ream of unfinished paperwork which in turn were covered in coffee stains. The lid was conspicuously absent. Camille’s eye took it all in in an instant and decided not to nanny him on this occasion, even though she knew the heat would render it useless in a matter of minutes and he would spend the rest of the day rooting around for another. 

“Camille, hi!” He really needed to stop being this enthusiastic every time he saw her.

“Sir.” He noted that she was dressed more soberly than he had seen her for a while and he felt his stomach tighten in anticipation.

“Would you like a seat?” He motioned to the one opposite him and only just managed to stop himself from moving around the desk and pulling it out for her.

She glanced at Fidel who was still dutifully filling out paperwork. He took the hint immediately. “I should probably do a patrol Sir, just to check everything’s ok…” she gave him a grateful smile as HUimphrey nodded his assent and sat down. 

“Did you have a nice time with Benjie yesterday Sir?”

“Hmmm? Oh Yes! Yes, I did. He’s tiny isn’t he? Difficult to imagine being that small…” he trailed off then seemed to remember why she was there. “So, um what can I do for you?” He must have sensed her reticence to begin. He began to fidget in the silence that followed. “Are you having a good holiday?” He knew it wasn’t the best question he could have asked having seen her twice over the weekend but didn’t really know what else to say.

“Yes…I…” She seemed unsure of how to continue so finished with a bland, “thank you Sir.” It was turning out to be more awkward than she would have liked. 

She took a deep breath and decided to plunge straight in, clashing in spectacular form with Humphrey’s, “Richard seems nice...” 

“I’d like to hand in my resignation…” 

“Resignation?” He was floored. The word fell out of his mouth, as he sat there staring at her, suddenly feeling rather foolish. He tried desperately to collect his thoughts but it seemed that they were intent on clinging on to the fact that if she had wanted him she wouldn’t be leaving. He fought to stop his eyes closing in pain at the idea of losing her for good. 

He wondered if she had had to work hard to keep up the pretence of a friendship between them. The thought crossed his mind in an instant, his eyes fixed on her face as he tried to search for any cruelty in her, any mocking, but found none. Only a polite interest in how he was taking her news, a slight worry that he wouldn’t approve before she had to lay out her demands. 

She became more confident. “Yes sir.” 

“Look, Camille, if it’s something I’ve done…I know my behaviour a couple of months ago wasn’t exactly…um…becoming of a…of me. But I thought we’d moved on from that?” 

“No! I mean yes, Sir. It’s fine.” He looked like he didn’t believe her. “Honestly, its fine.” Better to bite the bullet and tell him now. She took a deep breath more sheepish than she would have liked. “I’m moving to London.” 

“Oh. To be with…?” He indicated Richard’s name with the wave of a hand. He couldn’t help himself, it was a punishment to know, but if he didn’t ask he would torture himself with false hope until he saw her again. 

“Richard, Sir. Yes.”

“Oh.” He didn’t really know what else to say.

***

Richard sat back in his chair and ran the palm of his hand over his eyes trying to massage some life back in to his face. Under his middle finger he could feel the indents his glasses had created on either side of the bridge on his nose. He didn’t need a mirror to know that they would be an angry red against the white of his skin. He rubbed lightly, knowing that they would already be fading, hoping that they would be gone by the time Camille got home. 

He was tired. Why, whenever he was away from the office did his body have the innate need to suddenly stop working? It was as if his body clock actively counted down the seconds until he was meant to be enjoying himself, then shut down. He smiled a little at his body’s efforts to try and curb his holiday’s entertainments. It was true he was paying dearly for it, barely hanging on to his health, praying that his need for an actual break would happen on the flight home and he would have to call in sick the next day as the typical office cliché. 

His back ached too, but at least it ached all over rather than just the small area either side of his spine that signified he was about to get seriously ill. He wondered idly if it was her bed. Or their lack of using one that had brought on this particular twinge. When had he got this old? Richard remembered praying for illness during his school days, because it would have meant a day in the san, away from the other boys, with a ration of scratchy dry toast and gallons of hot sweet tea shoved down his throat, alone with a book and his thoughts. But it had never worked. He had remained resolutely healthy. He had even once resorted to soaking his flannel in boiling water before applying it to his forehead in an effort to fool the thermometer in to thinking he had a fever. But Sister Hill had been immovable and he had been reacquainted with her slipper for his trouble. He grimaced at the memory, his backside twitching involuntarily in joint remembrance. 

And now? Now, he’d do anything to have his health back. A middle aged man getting achy joints, chills and rheumatism. He’d rather Camille didn’t see that. The usual creaks and pains of old age were one thing. They were easy to hide, but Richard remembered the last time he’d had flu. His knee joints had swollen up so badly that it had made doing up his shoelaces almost impossible without a loud accompanying groan, a habit he had tried to shake with difficulty. After that, he had started trying them in a double knot to save the embarrassing and pitying looks from other men the same age. But they still knew. They only had to look at his hair to know. Once, when on the tube, a man had grimaced and shot Richard a sympathetic sort of look which Richard could have sworn was directed at diminishing hairline. He had been too embarrassed to do anything other than nod politely in return then ignore the entire thing completely by burying his head in his newspaper, before leaving the carriage in quiet indignation. But it had signalled the beginning of something. The complete slide into being a fully-fledged member of the old man’s club. The club where your hair fell out and your knees didn’t work and your skin was slowly losing its elasticity. Even exercise hurt. He no longer had the feeling of freedom and joy that he had once had when losing himself on a run. Now all he could focus on was the fact that his ankles hurt and his knees juddered with every step as he hoped that he wasn’t about to keel over with heart failure. He even carried ID on him when he went running. Just in case. The fastidious side of him hating the idea of being an unidentified body in the morgue or worse, identified by a colleague there on another job, quite by chance. And yet he still ran. Because at the end of the day he was only 42, and the need to impress a woman spurred him on. 

***

She stood watching him tidy his paperwork from the doorway, his desk a world away from the one she had just left at the station with its neatly aligned pens and makeshift piles of completed work for his different cases. She watched him shuffle the ream that he had gathered; watched him stretch his back out and lift and remove his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose in tiredness. She was disappointed he had brought his work, hating what it did to him but there had been no alternative. 

“Are you finished?” She noticed with amusement that the glasses that were half way back to his nose were instead placed on the desk at the sound of her voice. 

He turned and gave her a weary shrug, “not really, but I’ve done enough for today.”

“Good.” She raised her eyebrows playfully as she walked over to him, sitting down gently in his lap. They sat, studying each other in silence, Richard brushing his fingers through her curls, gently enough to avoid the ever present threat of entanglement that her hair provided. 

Her eyes closed briefly in pleasure as she turned towards his hand and pressed against it, the stress from the morning fading gently in the peace of quiet of his company. He raised his chin expectantly as she leant forward, readying himself for the touch of her lips but was surprised when she reached out a finger and rubbed the rapidly fading indentations that his glasses had made. 

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” Her tone was teasing. She had suspected for some time that he did and knew exactly why he hadn’t told her. She found his vanity endearing, and on any other occasion would have mocked his narcissism. But looking at him she realised that now wasn’t the time to embarrass him. 

If eyes were the window to the soul then Richard’s were wide open. He was watching her with a look of complete vulnerability. Stripped bare of his usual self-importance and arrogance, he had nowhere to hide from her. His eyes were searching, so full of trust and love that she was silenced in an instant. 

And then it was gone. Ruined by the overwhelming fear of being swamped by something so completely beyond his control and understanding. The window closed, the mask slid back into place.

He cleared his throat, abashed. “I’m sorry. For working.” 

She shrugged her reply, unwilling to give the moment up just yet. Her eyes indicated his glasses, drawing his attention back to where he had tried to change the subject. “You know, I quite like them.” She received the smallest of smiles in return as he shook his head gently, disagreeing with her. She leant forward and kissed him innocently on the mouth. “I bet they look good on you.” 

He raised an eyebrow in disagreement. “They make me look old.”

“No…” She kissed the crease at the top of his nose, trying to smooth the wrinkles away, “frowning makes you look old.”

He smiled. “But if I didn’t frown so much how else would I get you to kiss me?” She laughed and pulled back again, assessing his cheekbones in further detail. 

“I like these too.” Her fingers found the light brown trail that now gently marked his skin. She followed the line up his cheeks and across his nose. “Comment tu dites en Anglais?”

The only show of interest came from a slightly raised eyebrow. The lopsided smile showed no sign of disappearing, instead it deepened, amused by her first request for help with her English. “Freckles.” 

She nodded, not wanting to repeat him because she didn’t want to cement the fact that she hadn’t known in the first place. Instead, she stroked them again, studying the pattern and discolouration in intense detail.

He smiled at her fondly. “It’s either white or freckles.”

“You don’t tan.” It was a statement. He shook his head.

“Not even with factor 10.”

She kissed the end of his nose decisively, “well it’s a good thing I like them then.” 

They settled in to an easy silence, a silence punctuated by yet more chaste kisses as Camille took delight in the continued tracing of his freckles, finding darker patches across his forehead which were spread so evenly and deeply that it made him look as close to tanned as she was ever going to see him. Sitting back suddenly she fixed him with a questioning look. 

“What is it?” 

“What’s what?” He seemed perplexed by her sudden change in tempo. 

“You shook your head.” 

“Did I?” He knew he had. He had been so caught up in his thoughts that it had happened before he had been able to stop himself. Her eyes narrowed as he tried a dismissive, all encompassing, “I’m happy.” The questioning look deepened into the beginnings of a frown and he knew once again he was going to have to elaborate. The beginnings of a smile touched the corners of his lips. He knew when he was beat. “Honestly?” She nodded in earnest, eager to be enlightened. He shook his head again as the smile turned into a chuckle at his schoolboy admission, said partly with cheek, partly with genuine amazement. “I can’t believe you let me have sex with you.” 

She burst out laughing. “That’s what you were thinking about?” 

He shrugged. “You asked!”

“I didn’t think you’d say something like that!” 

“Camille, believe me, somewhere in an alternative universe there is the teenage version of me high fiving the middle aged me. Whereas your teenage self is currently looking at you and face planting.” 

She was still giggling but tried to contradict him all the same. “You don’t know what I dreamt of as a teenager.” 

He nodded his head once in a conciliatory fashion. “Correct. But I think we can safely assume that your dreams didn’t include a middle aged white man or a five year old decrepit car with a baby seat in the back.” His sarcasm earned him a clout on the arm. He chuckled then bit the inside of his lip as he mulled over her actual teenage fantasies deciding that they were probably decidedly less middle class by their nature. 

“So…” he fixed her with an assessing look, “if you didn’t dream of being swept off your feet by a man who burns in 17 degree heat, what did you dream of?” She didn’t answer and he began to feel that he might enjoy teasing her. “Perhaps you wanted to be whisked away by some travelling wanderer? A film star?” She shook her head. “No, too mainstream. Someone more rebellious perhaps? Someone to travel the world with?” She snorted and raised an eyebrow in protest and he almost gave up in defeat, throwing out one more formulaic teenage dream before giving up entirely. “Oh God, I bet you fell in love with a surfer boy didn’t you? All rugged muscles and unintelligible vocabulary?” The eyebrow remained raised but the smile took on a more guilty aspect. She looked intensely annoyed that he had been able to read her so easily.

“I might have had a surfer boyfriend.” 

He shook his head, chuckling gently. “You’re such a cliché! I bet he had dreadlocks that smelled of the sea and a tattoo that said ‘life is a wave, ride it!’.” She laughed as he did a surprisingly good impression of an American surfer to highlight the phrase that wouldn’t have been so out of place on some of the members of the group she had hung out with. 

“He also had a top knot. Jealous?” 

“Of a man with enough hair for both dreadlocks and a topknot? Always.” She giggled and ran a hand through his hair affectionately. She seemed to be debating whether to share another element of her past with him, but given his many revelations to her she thought she owed him that much.

“Can I tell you a secret?” 

“Another one?” It was said teasingly but he realised that she might need him to be a little more serious as she nodded at him shyly. He gave her an apologetic smile and settled down to listen. 

“After Papa left, that was all I wanted. The five year old sedan and the baby seat. And then when I got older, I…” She paused, aware that what she was about to say was disloyal in the extreme. Her voice dropped a little. “I didn’t want to be like Maman. I didn’t want to give my life up for someone. To be that vulnerable.” She sighed. “Poor Maman. I don’t think I was an easy teenager.” 

“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” She smiled sadly at him, but still didn’t look entirely at ease. He thought that she might need some reassurance.

“Camille?” She wouldn’t look at him but he continued regardless. “I won’t leave. I’ll never leave.” She was nodding, eyes focused on his chest. Perhaps he had sounded a little stalkerish. “I mean, unless you don’t want me anymore…, then obviously I’ll go...” The eyes flashed up to his accompanied with a wan smile. She suddenly became aware of the music in the background. She wasn’t sure how she had missed it before, perhaps her attention had been caught by a sudden crescendo. Either way, it was suddenly all she could think about.

“Is this opera”? 

He nodded. “Puccini.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Him,” he corrected gently, “he’s the composer.” 

“Oh.” She looked embarrassed that she had made such a fundamental error, that her lack of knowledge had let her down again. She tried to move on from it quickly. “It’s beautiful.” Richard nodded as he watched her face take on the subtlety of the music as it permeated the quietness between them, recharging them with an electricity that her confession had removed. She tried to follow the words but found that she couldn’t distinguish the Italian as it merged in to itself. She looked to him for clarification. “What’s he singing about?” 

“Loss. He thinks he’s lost the woman he loves.” Camille sat and listened for the end of the aria, the silence which followed it seemed oddly eerie as she gently insinuated that she needed to know more before a new piece started. He looked embarrassed but obliged her none the less.

“Forever, my dream of love has vanished.  
That moment has fled, and I die in desperation.”

She looked as though she was about to cry. “Does he get her back?” 

Richard shook his head. “Not really. But he dies knowing she loves him.” He smiled at her sadness. “I’ll take you to see it one day if you like.” She looked as though she definitely didn’t the idea of that and he laughed. “The music is beautiful.” 

“But he dies.” He chuckled quietly deciding not to tell her that the majority of the main cast died. He tried to conjure up an opera with a happy ending. His brain failed him. Were there really no happy ones? He suddenly hit on one.

“Perhaps The Magic Flute then?” 

“Is that happy?”

“Definitely happier than Tosca.” 

She nodded, placated and settled down in to his arms again. They sat in more happy silence. His hands drifted towards the apex of her thighs and she shifted a little so that his fingers could rest easily over the curvature of her leg. She was about to instigate a fresh bout of kisses when his stomach gave an almighty rumble. 

Giggling, she decided instead to slide off his lap, pulling him to his feet in the process. It was time for lunch.


	25. Lunchtime Confessions

It had been simple to put together, Catherine had supplied them with a small feast taken from the menu at La Kaz, designed to be eaten quickly and with no fuss. And so it was that he came to be sitting in her small garden in the only patch of shade he could find, thinking that actually as far as things went he really didn’t have much to complain about. Every now and then the hands supporting his body weight slid off the rug and roamed on to the spiky grass that looked inviting in every way other than when he actually touched it. But he had become adept at not mentioning every little niggle that he experienced in the Caribbean.

He was grateful on this occasion that she had let him eat in peace. At so many meal times she seemed incapable of leaving him alone, either a hand over his or a foot rubbing delicately against his calf. And he loved it. Or at least he had at the beginning. But eating one handed was becoming a chore. And knowing Camille, it wasn’t something he could just ask her to stop doing without a row.

They were watching each other from across the blanket that she had thoughtfully laid out, a mischievous curl on Camille’s lips as her foot crept ever more dangerously close to his.   If it connected he’d never find out what had happened that morning. He tried a diversion tactic.

“So. Humphrey?”

“I told you, it was fine.” He nodded his head once in appreciation, not really sure what that meant.

“He let you go?”

“You make it sound like I’m a piece of property Richard…” The foot slowed its progress and he rolled his eyes behind his eyelids, wincing slightly at the edge in her voice and silently cursing his indelicacy despite the hint of a smile in her voice. “But yes he let me go. Three months.”

“Three?” He was having a hard time keeping the disappointment out of his voice.

She was phlegmatic. “Did you really expect him to just let me go without finding a replacement?” Richard hitched his top lip and thought, no, he hadn’t really, but three months! Another three months! She sensed his frustration and leant forward, reaching out a placating hand which stroked his thigh, “it’s only three.” _And then we’re together._ It hung unspoken between them and a little thrill ran through him at the idea of them living together. No travel. No long distance calls. No time difference. Strangely it did nothing to lighten his mood that had taken a sudden dip. She sighed and the caress stopped, her hand lying hotly on his trouser leg. “Why don’t you trust me, Richard?” She asked.

He was momentarily stunned. “I do!”

Her matter of fact tone continued unabated. “Fine, then you don’t trust him.”

“I do trust him,” he was scrabbling around, trying to reassure her.

She threw him a look. “Don’t…like him then…” And don’t tell me you do because I’ve seen the way you look at him when he’s not looking at you.”

“I don’t…not like him. I just don’t know him. I’m sure he’s fine…he’s…nice.”

“But…”

“I just…don’t…like the way he dresses.” He knew even before he opened his mouth that it would sound stupid.

Camille snorted and repeated him to make sure she had heard him correctly, this only served to make him clam up completely.

“Ok, I’m sorry.” She was more sincere with her final apology, “I’m sorry...” she managed to get her eyebrows back under control and indicated for him to elaborate. She definitely didn’t understand but she also didn’t want to start an argument.

“He just always looks so…dishevelled. And…and messy.” He risked a look at her. She still didn’t get it and he sighed again but this time was determined to make her see. “Ok…just imagine something happened to me. Something bad. And Humphrey turned up at your door wearing a stained shirt and a suit that looked like he slept in it. First impressions. Would you trust him to find out what had happened to me?”

She suppressed a shudder and pushed the scenario to the back of her mind. It wasn’t something she wanted to think about. “Things are different out here. People don’t mind how you look as long as you’re good at your job." 

Richard raised an eyebrow. If there was one thing he knew about it was first impressions. He’d suffered enough of them over his career. “They’re not that different and people do mind. You’re defending him because you know him.” He cast around for another line of reason, something to try and make her understand. It wasn’t a particularly good example, but it was something none the less. “Say….say something happened to our child.” He backtracked a little to save himself from her raised eyebrow. “If we had one. Would you trust him then?”

She wanted to say yes. She wanted to be loyal. But she knew she couldn’t. She knew she would regard his easy manners as affected foppery and his clumsiness with cold distain. She knew she would prefer the cold professionalism that Richard presented, regardless of Humphrey’s open nature and eagerness to help. She would need something to trust in and cling to, and a man who didn’t care enough about his appearance to take care of his clothes gave the impression that he wouldn’t care about the case he was working on.    

She seemed at a loss to say anything and shrugged her shoulders as if to say _well, what can I do?_ Richard shook his head by way of response.

“I’m sorry. Its…petty. I’m sure he’s a nice guy. I just… “

“I get it.” She smiled a self deprecating smile. “I thought you were jealous.” He smirked and her smile turned in to a glimmer of understanding. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I know. But it doesn’t make it easier. Knowing you’re here with him.”

She shifted, moving to sit next to him, “it’s only for three months.” He nodded, looping his arm around her, feeling her lean in to him as much as their position on the grass would allow. They sat in silence, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the background noise of suburban life as it continued out on the street. He inhaled deeply, the heat stinging his nostrils as the salt in the air clung to the light sheen on his skin as the faint smell of her light perfume enveloped him. It was the same residual scent that had been left on his pillow the morning she had left London. The same that had seemed to hang around in the house, taunting his every move as he progressed from room to room. It had welcomed and alienated him in his own home and taunted him as he tried to sleep. That night and every other he had spent alone had been hell. A constant war between needing her and wanting to be rid of the memories that surrounded him.

“What are you thinking about?” His thoughts scattered at her interruption yet again.

Caught unawares he found himself answering where his mind had been on the cusp of wandering to before he could stop himself. “Christmas.” Realising that out of context it probably sounded a little odd he risked a glance at her, mouth open, ready to explain, only to find that she had understood. “Do you think you could get time off?”

Not wanting to answer him just yet she gave a lop sided shrug and hit the same question back at him. “Do you?”

In times gone by he would have complained about her dodging the question and putting the onus back on him. But in truth, rather like the hand holding and the little touches she bestowed on him, he liked that she looked to him so much for the lead on things. On a superficial level someone who didn’t know him that well might have said that it played to his idea of self importance, but Camille knew better. Deeply insecure, it buoyed his confidence and gave him a purpose in their relationship. 

He thought about it. It would be difficult but another week was no less than he was owed.   And he could offset the time away with the promise of yet more completed paperwork. He nodded, “probably.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

He gave her an enigmatic smile. “Why don’t you talk to Humphrey first.” She rolled her eyes and sank back in to silence, the idea of asking him for anything at the moment did not appeal. Pouting, she found that Richard was eyeing her with amusement. Her pout deepened in annoyance. 

He lent in and kissed her hair murmuring, “you’re very pretty when you sulk.”   The pout was broken by a small smile at the irony of both his words and their situation and she began to relax.

In time he felt her countenance change, her body stiffened and he knew another line of questioning was about to be directed at him. He braced himself for another dissemination of Humphrey‘s character.   But it wasn’t what he expected. Her voice instead of hard and accusatory was soft and coaxing. She was nervous.

“Tell me about school.” He sighed and she tried again. “Please. You said we could talk about it.” 

He swallowed an ironic laugh at his clumsy attempt on Saturday night to get her to leave the party and return home with him. All it had seemed to do was give her leeway to bring up the ruddy subject again, when all he wanted to do was forget about it.

He tried the bare minimum. “There isn’t much to tell.   I went at 8, I came back at 18. There isn’t much more to it than that.”

“You spent ten years away from your parents?” He nodded, non plussed and ignorant of her incredulity. “Would you want our children to do that?”

“No…” he had been about to go on, but managed to restrain himself in time, collecting himself. “If they want to go, that’s something we can talk about. But I don’t want to send them away.”

“If they want to go?”

He laughed derisively. “Believe it or not, some children actually like it. They see it as an adventure. I’m think my father thought I was a bit of a coward for not being one of them.”

“Richard, there’s nothing wrong with an eight year old wanting to stay at home. You were a child.” He shrugged indicating that it didn’t matter what she thought. It was too long ago. “Did you ask to come home?”                                                              

He stiffened, and she sensed he was damming something up inside him before finally convincing himself to talk to her. “Every exeat, half term and holiday for the first year and a half. I think Dad thought it was amusing to start with. I started getting a clip around the ear every time I mentioned it after a while. There’s only so many times you can be told that you’re lucky to be there before you start to feel ungrateful.”

“And your mother?”

“She cried so much after the first time I asked her, I didn’t do it again.” He sounded vaguely amused by the whole thing, much to her bewilderment.

“Even when they hit you?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t the only one, and it could have been worse. I could have been caned. I got bog flushed a couple of times but after that they got bored and moved on to someone else."

“Caned?”

“You know, when they hit you with a cane?” He tried to simplify it, “the masters? It’s a long hard stick. Like bamboo.”

She looked disgusted. “And bog flushed?”

“Its um,” realising that this particular explanation was in all likelihood going to lead to a fresh outpouring of emotion on her part he decided not to explain. “It doesn’t matter, it’s stupid anyway.” She seemed about to disagree with him so he cut her off with, “and it was a long time ago.”

“You really don’t want to talk about it?”

He exhaled sharply, aware that he was coming to the end of his patience. “I don’t see the point. It’s not going to do anything.”

“But it would help you!”

He gave a wan smile at her naivety. “Camille, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but I’m English.” She raised an annoyed eyebrow.   “And the English don’t like to talk about their feelings.”

“You’re not that much of a cliché.” It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. She tried a different tact, “I just want to help.”

“You’re already helping. Camille, you are…” He sat for a moment trying to find a way to tell her how much she had already done for him, how different he felt by being with her, but anything he framed in his mind sounded trite and insignificant. At a loss of what to say he finished with “I love you.” He wasn’t sure if that would be the end of it but given that she had pressed herself back in to him it had seemed to have done the trick for the moment.


	26. Chapter 26

Their lack of socialising over the beginning of the week outside of the necessary had culminated in them both needing to get out of Camille’s little house. There was only so much time that they could spend alone before the island gossips deemed their behaviour rude and indecent.

Humphrey had been included despite much whinging on Richard’s part, redeeming himself slightly in his eyes by gracefully declining, explaining that the station needed to be manned for a little longer. Camille had seemed almost as relieved as Richard had and when he had finally arrived she had been equally grateful that he had excused himself after one awkward drink.

She had left the old van guard at the table, retreating to the bar for another drink. She stood watching him, laugh openly, his eyes shining with animation, surprising both Fidel and Dwayne for the first time by poking fun at himself and his time on the island. She was almost as surprised as they were at the change in him. The shroud of responsibility he had donned when he had been their boss had been well and truly cast off. His clothes had helped. Camille had banned the suit and tie, unnecessarily as it turned out as Richard had had no intention of ever wearing anything resembling wool in the heat again. But the lightweight material had clearly given him a new lease of life. He wasn’t returning to an island where he used to work. This was a man on holiday determined to finally enjoy himself amongst people he trusted.

She leant over the bar, feeling for a bottle opener, removing the lid of her beer with a soft hiss as she looked on, her mother quietly joining her, as interested in seeing the change in Richard as her daughter was.

She shook her head once hardly believing her eyes. “He’s so different Cami. I never thought I’d see it.” Camille smiled broadly as Catherine leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you remember, all that huffing and puffing about his tea and his suit?” The smile turned into a small laugh as she remembered his bluster and his pomposity. Enjoying an increasingly rare moment of bonding with her daughter Catherine continued. “And always wanting to be on his own? Even at his birthday party?”

“He just wanted some space, Maman.” It was rather a lame attempt to justify his past behaviour, but Catherine kept quiet, knowing that nothing would remove her daughter’s rose tinted spectacles that were now firmly in place when it came to the man she loved.

“So…” Camille raised an eyebrow to her mother’s opening line. She knew what was coming, but was too drunk to bother to put her guard up. She shifted on her feet and waited for the question she knew her mother had been dying to ask ever since her initial rebuff. “You never told me what he was like.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “You know what he’s like.”

“I mean in private!” Camille rolled her eyes and Catherine tried a cajoling, “I just want to make sure you’re happy!” Camille bit back a laugh, her mother’s need for gossip was legendary, but she gave in all the same, shrugging.

“He’s sweet Maman.”

“Sweet?” Catherine had been hoping for a little more than sweet.

Camille huffed. She hoped her mother would leave it at that.

She didn’t. “Lily says I need to talk to you about respecting your neighbours…she says that there was some quite intimate kissing on your doorstep on Friday night…”

“Well _Lily_ should respect the privacy of _her_ neighbours…” Catherine was trying desperately to hold in a laugh, but after catching Camille’s eye both women dissolved in to giggles.

Camille’s resolve disintegrated completely, drifting away for a moment reliving that first kiss again, and the many they had had since. “He’s just…different.” Catherine raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know how to explain it. Everything I judged him on when I first met him was so wrong: the bluster and the anger. That’s not him. 

Clearly Richard’s emotional fragility wasn’t enough for Catherine. “And the sex?” she raised her eyebrows cheekily.

Camille tried not to choke on her beer. “Maman!”

“Oh come on!”

Camille was trying desperately to stop her mouth running away with her, Richard would be mortified if he knew they were talking about him like this. She settled for a very bland, “he’s very passionate.”

“He’d have to be if your kissing was enough to outrage Lily.” Camille said nothing but smiled enigmatically. Catherine tried again, “Camille...”

She was propping herself up on the bar, leaning in to her palm and staring at the bottles that lined the wall willing her mother to give up. Knowing that that wasn’t an option she reiterated, “he’s very passionate.” Before smiling naughtily and adding, “and giving.” Her mother raised an eyebrow at that.

“And you’re happy?” Camille nodded and Catherine smiled lovingly at her only child. “He’s happy too. Everyone can see it. I’ve never seen him this relaxed.”

“Relaxed?” Humphrey had joined the twosome, his interest piqued by Catherine’s final analysis of, as far as he could see, the very straight laced detective. He waved his bottle at Catherine in a friendly manner. It seemed that tonight everyone was happy to drink their responsibilities away.

Catherine laughed, pointing an accusatory finger at Humphrey, turning to the fridge to retrieve another beer. “You should have seen him before.”

“You’ve changed him then?” A brief frown crossed his face unseen as he thought about everything Sally had tried to change about him.   Camille thought she could distinguish a touch of sadness in his voice as she considered her answer.

“No. He was just shy.”

Catherine smiled at her daughter’s analysis of what she now understood had been a very lonely and misunderstood man and handed Humphrey’s drink over.

Camille turned to him. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.” He was happy to change the subject, unlike Catherine he hadn’t wanted to spend any time discussing the man he believed to be robbing him of his only chance of happiness.

“Do you know what ‘bog flushing’ is?”

Humphrey choked a small laugh in to his beer. It certainly had not been what he had been expecting. It never was with Camille. “Can I ask the context?”

“I…heard some boys talking about it on the beach…” it was an awful lie, and one she hoped he wouldn’t call her out on.   But he let it go, frowning as he mulled over his answer.

“English boys?” She nodded. He looked mildly perplexed. “I didn’t realise they were still doing that.” He looked up to find her still looking at him, willing him to explain. “Um…you got it in schools with fagging.” This did nothing to clear up her confusion. “Fagging?” His repetition of the word in a slightly more clearly enunciated way didn’t help either. “When older boys get younger boys to do stuff for them?” She nodded even though she had no idea what he was talking about. “I didn’t think they were allowed to do fagging anymore either though.” His train of thought came back to her original question. “So, bog flushing. You just shove someone’s head down the loo and pull the flush. Usually happened to the really clever kids in my school. You know, the ones no one liked?" 

Camille had gone very quiet.

“Is everything alright?”

She managed to pin a smile on her face despite all of her feelings pointing to the contrary. “Yes. Fine.”

“Does that clear up your question?” She nodded. Humphrey still seemed a little lost in their previous conversation. “Um, the boys.” Her eyes widened in expectation, “if you see them again, perhaps tell their parents or something. Fagging’s nasty stuff, can turn sexually…” he wasn’t really sure how to explain it to her so finished with an all encompassing, “nasty. You know.” She nodded then realised that she didn’t actually know what he meant. She was about to say as much when she noticed that he was shaking his head. “Actually don’t. Probably best not to get involved. They were probably just repeating something they’d read in a book anyway. Maybe talk to them instead. They might open up to you.” He smiled at her and took another swig, imagining that if Camille had spoken to him as a boy he would have told her anything she liked.

***

Back at the table, alcohol was beginning to affect the little group far more than they thought, Dwayne’s gesticulations were becoming more wild and a small pool of beer was being splashed on to the table every time he used his bottle to make his point. “I’m telling you chief, I didn’t think the two of you would get this far. All that flirting and,” he shrugged, “nothing…”

“We didn’t flirt.” Dwayne snorted and Richard looked genuinely astonished. “Did we? I mean, did we flirt?” Fidel shot Dwayne a small smile at his senior’s naivety.

“Come on chief. All that tension bubbling away between the two of you.” Richard still looked blank. “You had no idea? Seriously?” He lifted his beer to his lips shaking his head and muttering, “clueless.”

Richard looked guilty. “You sound like Camille.”

Fidel chipped in, all sweet smiles and not for the first time did Richard realise how much he had missed having him as a friend. “Seriously sir. You had no idea?” He had given up insisting that Fidel call him by his Christian name, he knew it would never happen.

“Fidel, if you knew of some of the spectacular mistakes I have made with my love life you wouldn’t sound so surprised.” Fidel raised an eyebrow and Dwayne leant forward eager for more information before his old superior put up his old defences. But it was wishful thinking as Richard said a firm, “you don’t need to know.” 

“Come on chief, it’s not as if we haven’t all been there.”

Richard raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You? You’ve made mistakes with women?”

Dwayne shrugged. “One or two when I first started out…I once got invited in for coffee.” He paused dramatically, his small audience willing him to continue. He gave a short, “I told her I didn’t like coffee.” This was met with complete derision and as close to jeering as it was possible to get for such a small group.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Who doesn’t like _coffee_ …”

“Hey, I thought coffee was coffee. I didn’t know.”

“How old were you?” Richard was becoming more suspicious by the second.

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?” There was another round of disbelieving spluttering.

Dwayne shrugged as Richard continued. “Dare we ask how old she was?”

“Twenty three. Can’t remember her name though.” He paused to take another nonchalant swig of his beer. He tried his luck again, “Ok chief, your turn.”

Richard was gaping like a fish. “You took a twenty three year old on a date when you were fifteen?” Dwayne nodded. “And she asked you in?” Dwayne shrugged as if to say, _what did you expect?_ Richard was looking at him in awe. “It’s like your some sort of wizard.”

“You have to spread the love chief.” He gave him a jovial wink. “How old were you?” He was getting cheekier, the more he drank.  

“None of your business. But it would have been a damn sight sooner if I’d realised that when she invited me in to see her parent’s house, she didn’t actually want me to see _the house_.”

“Shit.” It was said as a consolation.

“Mmmm.” It still rankled twenty five years later.

“So you just, went in, had a look at her house and left?”

“Pretty much, I couldn’t work out why she went to sit on her bed when we got to her bedroom.” Dwayne started sniggering in to his beer. “At least I got past the door Dwayne.”

“Yeah, five years later than me.”

“It wasn’t five…” He realised that he was about to be tricked in to revealing his hand and raised a chastising finger. “I’m not falling for that Dwayne.”

It was Fidel’s turn. “That’s not that bad sir. I high fived Juliet at the end of our first date.”

“But you ended up marrying her...”

“So?”

“So, that’s the worst story in the world. You owe us another one.”

“There isn’t another one.”

“Come on, you were put off by her dog watching you or something…

“Chief…?" 

Richard realised what he’d just done and gave a decisive “no comment,” while Dwayne snorted again and Fidel looked perplexed.

“Did that happen to you sir?”

He realised he really had to stop drinking.

“Come on chief.”

“Look, it was on the bed with me.” He had gone red and was beginning to splutter, he wanted more than anything for Fidel to take the heat off him. “And that’s all I’m going to say. Fidel…”

“Honestly Sir there isn’t one. Juliet’s the only one.”

“Come on Fidel, she’s not here, you can tell us about the others.”

He cleared his throat quietly as he spoke into his beer. “There aren’t any others. It’s only ever been Juliet.”

Dwayne moved forward, a serious look on his face. “Been as in been been?”

Fidel shrugged. “We’ve been together since we were 20.”

Dwayne took a long draught of his beer and lent back again. “Wow.” Richard just raised his eyebrows in recognition, the corners of his mouth down turning in acceptance. Fidel looked a little embarrassed.

“I know it’s not what people do, and maybe if it hadn’t worked out, I would have. But we got married so…”

There was total silence from the table while Richard debated what to say and Dwayne still looked too shell shocked to say anything at all. “I think it’s nice.” It was Richard who spoke first. “I mean, if I’d met Camille earlier, maybe…” He was running the numbers through his head but given the age difference between them it seemed unlikely, even for him. He gave Fidel a reassuring smile.

“It’s a bit old fashioned…” He was clearly embarrassed.

“You’re not exactly talking to the world’s most prolific womaniser Fidel,” he motioned over to Dwayne who seemed finally to have snapped out of his reverie. “My first girlfriend asked if I could warm her feet up for her because they were cold.” He paused, embarrassed to be sharing yet another teenage travesty from his youth. He sighed, he didn’t really have anything to hide from them anymore. “I went to get her some socks.” Fidel smiled his gratitude and bit back a laugh.

Dwayne was chuckling in to his beer. “It wouldn’t have worked Chief.”   His pause seemed to indicate that they join him in disagreement but both Richard and Fidel seemed to have no clue what he was talking about. “Meeting Camille earlier. You weren’t her type. There was this one guy I know, used to date her…”

“Surfer? With dreadlocks and a top knot?” Dwayne nodded his ascent. “Yup. Camille told me.” Dwayne seemed nonplussed that the end to his story had been stolen. Richard sighed and picked at the label on his beer. “I know we wouldn’t have worked. Even now I don’t…” He trailed off and took another swig of his own beer.

“You want my advice Chief?” He didn’t wait for his agreement. “Just go with it.”

“Thank you Dwayne.” The acerbic sarcasm was lost on the laid back islander who merely raised his bottle in acknowledgement and went to get another round from the bar.

With the conversation at a lull Richard settled back in his chair to watch. He heard the music change tempo, Dwayne’s bottles sitting forgotten on the bar as he pulled Camille protesting to the dance floor, all smiles and slender hips swaying in time to the rhythm. He tried again to understand again what she saw in him. He couldn’t begrudge her for wanting to dance, he didn’t mind it in theory, just would rather have done it in private, than in front of her mother and his ex-colleagues, all of whom would be watching him closely. So he had declined joining her earlier, instead now enjoying watching her swivel her hips gently in time to the music, arms raised above her head. She danced for him, knowing that he was watching her, becoming more provocative as the song wore on. Richard smiled and shook his head as Dwayne pulled her in to a loose embrace, hips moving in time with hers. Would the man ever behave himself? He was a rogue thought Richard fondly, but a harmless rogue at least where Camille was concerned.

His smile faltered though when he spotted that Humphrey had joined the twosome on the dance floor. _Did the man own an iron?_ He thought to himself. But he remained seated. He trusted her. But as the song wore on his trust faltered as Humphrey replaced Dwayne, his arms snaking around Camille’s waist, pulling her far closer than Dwayne ever had. Richard held his breath, waiting for Camille to push him off her, to move away. But she didn’t. Her hands remained above her head, hips continued to swivel and Richard suddenly felt sick, a feeling that was compounded when Camille looked up, directly at him, smiled and continued.

Richard wasn’t sure if his legs would work anymore, but knew for certain that he had to get some fresh air. The music continued but he was suddenly oblivious to everything around him except the hammering of his heart and the dryness of his throat. The blood that was rushing through him seemed to be congregating in his cheeks, he could feel them blazing. It only highlighted the fact that he needed to leave before anyone saw.

Standing slowly, he muttered something about an empty bottle to Fidel before picking his way through people, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He needed time to be alone. Sneaking a quick look behind him, he was vaguely hoping that Camille had noticed his exit and was following him, but it only confirmed the worst. She didn’t care anymore, wasn’t watching him, had turned around, facing Humphrey, unbeknown to Richard, gently pushing him away. 

He was seething was embarrassment, her disloyalty smarting more than her hand against his face ever could.

His stride lengthened as soon as he exited the bar, hitting the unstifled air of the evening, wishing that it would take him anywhere except her house. But as the crowds thinned and the air became cooler he found himself able to think clearly and his feet changed direction, taking him back to the bar again. There had been something about that smile and the more he thought about it the quicker he found his feet carrying him back towards the music. It hadn’t reached her eyes. He realised that she had needed him.

Forgetting his hatred of dancing and doing his best to ignore the bass line that he could now feel pumping through the soles of his shoes he pushed his way through the crowds on the dance floor towards her.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yup - after more than a year away I'm finally getting enough sleep to be able to write full sentences again (although still not entirely convinced that I like this chapter all that much. Sorry its taken so long. Thank you for you kind encouragement - it really has started me up again!

Even hidden by the people on the crowded dance floor she was easy to find, her head moving in time to the music using the rhythm to scan the busy bar for him. She had succeeded in pushing him away slightly, and as Richard got closer he could see her stiff body posture was a total contrast to the loose hold that Humphrey still had around her waist. Discomfort radiated from every muscle in her body. He supposed if he had paid attention to her properly then he would have realised that she wasn’t interested in her new dance partner. He cursed his rashness and stupidity. 

He tried to look casual but remembering his balled fists wasn’t quite sure he was pulling it off. He stretched the muscles in his hand, flexing his fingers out again, then panicked that it might look as though he was getting ready to throw a punch. Humphrey looked up briefly at the figure standing too close to them, catching his eye. Realisation hit him swiftly, his hands dropping to his side in an effort to hide the guilt he felt, releasing Camille who took an immediate step towards Richard. Her new partner dipped his head once, not really sure what he was trying to convey to both of them. Perhaps a protective nod towards Camille and a warning to Humphrey? He didn’t rightly know. 

Humphrey was in the process of beating a hasty retreat, mumbling something about work the next day, suddenly realising that the beer might have led him to believe that Camille was enjoying her dance with him more than she had been. 

And finally Richard was free to finally take her in his arms. 

The volume of the music made it impossible to talk but she held on to him tightly, sighing happily in to his shoulder as he caressed the back of her hair by way of an apology for not coming to her aid sooner.

They stood swaying gently to the music, happy for the moment to just relax in to one another again. But the energetic nature of those around him soon drew his attention to the fact that he was as equally alienated on the dance floor as he had been watching. The music was not suited to swaying. He responded by letting his hand sweep lower, pulling her pelvis closer to his, rocking her hips from side to side in time to the music. She let him lead, raising her arms, allowing him to spin her gently, rewarded by his ever increasing smile when he realised that he was capable of pleasing her in this when it went against every instinct he had. It was the closest approximation of zouk that Richard could manage but she didn’t care. 

Coming back in to his shoulder she used a brief moment of calm to nuzzle in closer, her lips touching his neck briefly, stopping to assess whether he would mind such a public display of their intimacy. He stiffened momentarily, but did nothing to chastise her. Raising her head up she instead caught his shy smile of acceptance. The music slowed and as their hip movement quietened a little, she moved in, her lips hovering against his, waiting for him to come to her. He did, in the briefest of kisses, smirking cruelly, at her open lips and closed eyes, at her need for something that he wasn’t prepared to give her. Sensing her annoyance, he gave a conciliatory kiss on the cheek, his splayed hand against the small of her back adding the slightly amount of pressure bringing her infinitesimally closer to him. 

There was no more that he could give her. She knew that. She knew that she had to be content with what she had. With knowing that he would never kiss her in public, never dance with her in public. 

Or would he? 

She looked at him again and thought she caught the beginnings of a deeper interest flicker across his face. It was quickly replaced by irritation when she heard the refrain play again for what she thought was the millionth time. She saw annoyance creep in to the creases of his eyes. He had clearly had enough. Holding tightly on to his hand she turned on her heel and lead him outside. Passing the bar they helped themselves to more drinks, something she knew that Richard never felt entirely comfortable with and finally settled themselves at a corner table with a wall bench away from the majority of prying eyes. Her mother was mercifully nowhere to be seen. 

He lifted his arm and not needing any more of an invitation she snuggled down quickly almost immediately pushing herself back off him a scowl writ large on her face. 

His shy smile had morphed in to an infantile smirk, knowing that when he had offered his arm that she wouldn’t like the feel of his slightly damp shirt, but doing it anyway with almost childlike glee. He responded by leaning in towards her, pushing her further in to the wall until she couldn’t back up any further. Sensing that she had lost but not really feeling like the loser, she let him kiss her, temporarily overcome by his enthusiasm. She snaked an arm around the back of his neck, exploiting the lapse in his self-control brought on by jealousy. She held him to her as long as possible, but at the moment where she sensed a change in his interest she also felt him begin to pull away. He moved quickly, giving her jaw a gentle parting nuzzle.

He picked up his beer and after taking a long draught, looked up to find himself on the end of a resolute stare. 

“What?”

“You’re not usually like this in public…” he smiled slightly and took several more mouthfuls, assuaging his thirst. 

She sat back making short work with a bottle of her own and continued her observation of him: the smile that showed no sign of dissipating, the cheeks that were rosy from dancing, and his hair that was slightly rumpled from her running her hands through it. 

She leant forward bottom lip caught between her teeth, finally understanding. “You know, you don’t have to mark your territory so obviously.

He feigned ignorance a little bemused where his recent bravado had suddenly appeared from. Alcohol? Adreneline? He answered her with a baffled, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

She continued unabashed. “I’m not going anywhere…”

His gaze settled resolutely on her face as he settled on swagger. “Since when did it become strange for a man to kiss his girlfriend on a dance floor?” 

She gave a small knowing smile. “Since that man is you…” 

He parried the small blow to his self-confidence and continued with bluster. “Well, if you don’t like it I won’t do it again,” he was needling her for a play fight and she returned his banter with ease.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it!”

He took another swig, remembering that he only ever felt this drunk, this alive, with her. He could feel his heart hammer in his chest, a ringing in his ears and the alcohol coursing through his veins. The room was expanding and contracting in turn.

She loved the cheeky bravado that the evening had unwrapped from his more usual reserved self. Without Humphrey she wasn’t sure that she would be seeing this side of him. She felt bizarrely indebted to him. “I like you jealous.” 

She also liked teasing him, and it was so easy to rile him with something he was determined to deny. 

“I’m not jealous!”

“So kissing in public, is normal for you is it?”

“Might I remind you that you didn’t seem to mind it on Friday night?” 

“Kissing on my doorstep is hardly public Richard, no matter how many people complain about us. 

She regretted it the moment she said it. She saw a small frown appear as he tried to decide what to make of her latest piece of information. “People complained?” 

She tried to be placating. “Only Lily.”

“The old bag next to you?” He raised his eyebrow and snorted as she hit him again, it was obvious from his retort that he’d had one too many to care all that much. 

She narrowed her eyes and smiled. “How drunk are you?”

“Very.” She had to laugh at his honesty. 

He returned the question. “How drunk are you?” 

She mulled it over, the beer she had had to quench her thirst hadn’t seemed to hit yet. When it did though, she too would be very drunk. “Not drunk enough to let you take advantage of me.” 

He rested both elbows on the table and cradled his chin in his hands mulling over her statement, replying with mock indignation, “but I’ve just rescued you on the dance floor.”

“…took your time though.”

He countered, “better late than never.” Crooking an eyebrow he said, “you seemed to be enjoying those gangly arms…” he morphed his own to resemble a gorilla like pose and tried to warp them around her. She beat him back, giggling as he quietened and stilled. Her fingers had remained on his chest after her attempt to push him away, brushing the buttons of his shirt as she snuggled down in to his shoulder. They sat enjoying the silence, neither feeling the need to interrupt it, too tangled up in the wave of relaxation that the beer was currently inducing. He lent back and closed his eyes allowing a series of endorphins and light headedness to overcome him for a moment before bringing his head back upright, clearing the unconsciousness that had suddenly become a threat. 

He blinked his eyes hard once, the fog dissipating briefly in order to find his train of thought again. “Who did Lily complain to?” 

“Maman.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

He rolled his eyes. “Of course she did. Is there anything your mother doesn’t know about on this blesséd isle?” 

She laughed, “no…she knows everything on the island.” A smile touched the corners of his lips at the inference that they were safe away from here. In London. His mind wandered to his house, the cafes and restaurants they had frequented, to their very public lunch in the park. To all the places and moments that were theirs. His memory flicked to their more personal time together. To them rumpled and messy, delirious on a concoction of euphoria and relief. 

The subliminal messaging of his brain caused a tremor to run up his thigh. It flexed once, under the hand that was laid gently on his trouser leg. Her gaze shifted quickly and caught his nervousness as the tip of his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. 

She drummed her forefinger once against his leg and his breath hitched, flexing uncontrollably as her finger reached an indecently high point on his leg. She decided to put him out of his misery. “You wanna go?” His nod was barely distinguishable but it was enough for her.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I'll ever finish this or even know how to end this but to those of you who have dropped me a comment every once in a while hoping for more - thank you, it makes my day!x

He woke with a start, the bed sheets clasped in an iron like grip and his airway temporarily blocked by memories and fear. Cracking open his eyelids a fraction he felt a sledge like hammer blow hit his retinas and closed them again immediately, nausea overcoming dread. He suddenly became aware of the hammering inside his skull and his tongue which now felt too big for his mouth. The sandpaper in his throat made swallowing impossible. Loosening his grip, his hand came up to his head as he kicked the sheet off his legs, rolling to the edge of the bed seeking the comparative coolness that contrasted against Camille’s body heat. 

Lying still he willed his mind to register blank in an effort to stop the nausea from both the dream and his hangover that now overpowered him. But fragments of memory continued to break through the wall. He forced himself to remember the night before; the walk home on the beach rather than on the road, his whinging placated by her giggling kisses; him shushing her outside Lily’s house as she whooped and laughed in between his kisses until the bedroom light came on and she finally let him hustle her through the door. And he remembered his being too drunk to want to care enough to remove his sandy shoes at her front door. 

The moving reel of memories ended suddenly, too hungover to recall any more. Taxed out under the pressure of a throbbing head, his thoughts shifted back to his most recent dream. The nausea returned. He felt the heat prickling his forehead worsen despite his lack of bedclothes and he made a hasty retreat for the bathroom moving as silently as he could hope to given the circumstances. He suddenly couldn’t bear to be in the same vicinity of another human being. 

In the bathroom he took several deep steadying breaths as he held on to the sink desperately trying to fight the rising tide to the memorial of his childhood. He risked looking at the mirror but was not rewarded with the reflection he wanted to see. He was a mess: hair plastered to his forehead like small matchsticks, the sheen of perspiration on his skin. He stared at himself, willing himself to be better. To forget and be released. He found the man in the mirror was shaking his head at some long forgotten incident and wondered how much longer he would be prisoner for. 

Splashing water on his face, he took several more deep breaths to ebb the rising retching before making himself down a large glass of water. He felt marginally better, well enough now to consider fishing around in the bathroom cupboard below the basin for an aspirin. His first foray into the bowels of the cabinet did not prove fruitful. Relying on touch rather than sight he made a grab for the first box his fingers came in to contact with and was rewarded with a box of tampons. 

Resting his head against the cool of the basin he wondered why, of all the moments in his life when he needed him, God wouldn’t come to his aid. 

Breathing deeply he tried again, knocking out several more boxes in the process of getting what he needed. Finally locating what felt like the correct box and not bothering to read the instructions he popped two in his mouth, downing another glass for good measure. Dropping to the floor he unconsciously pulled a towel over him, covering his nakedness, owing the additional level of privacy in his already most private moment to the child he was a lifetime ago. 

The cool tile and the lack of sunlight was already beginning to weave its magic. 

“Richard?” He didn’t bother to open his eyes or acknowledge her. He felt a hand on his forehead and heard her murmur, “poor baby.” He gave an appropriate pained grunt in response. He heard her somewhat flurried activity throwing boxes back in to the cupboard and wondered why she was bothering, given that he was in no position to complain about the mess and he’d already seen everything he’d pulled in to the basin. 

He opened his eyes to find her bestowing a sympathetic smile on him. He was definitely feeling sorry for himself.

“Do you really need the towel?”

He didn’t answer. He heard her sit down beside him. There was a long pause before she tried again. “You know I have seen you naked before…” She received another short snort for her trouble. She sighed, “Richard….”

“I think Camille…” he broke off to take a large gulp of air to quell the threatening nausea. He tried again. “It’s a little hard not to be body shy when your formative years were spent in a communal bathroom, washing in the company of 6 other boys and a matron who watched just to make sure that you were doing it correctly.” He realised he sounded bitter. He could still remember the rota board outside the bathroom with the name of his dorm on it. Two minutes noted in the schedule. Sometimes they were lucky and got hot water, more often than not though it was cold. He couldn’t complain though. Those with a W for their surname never got hot water. He had never understood why though, hot or cold, he had to stand in the shower for the full two minutes. At least he hadn’t wanted to think about it. They had never been allowed to get out early, and matron had never shirked her duty. Two minutes exactly under her watchful eye.

He could see her mouth open a little even though he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. he pushed the bitterness to one side and turned it into resignation. “It was pretty normal back then.” She still said nothing. The silence suddenly became overwhelming. “I suppose that the same experience might have had the opposite effect on some of my compatriots,” there had certainly been a few of the other boys who weren’t shy. 

“I’m never going to be one of those people who can just walk around like its normal. I’ll never be you.”

“I don’t want you to be me, I just want you to talk to me.”

“I am.” But he wasn’t. He knew that he should be telling her so much more. The constant threats, the bullying, the use of exercise as punishment at unholy hours in the morning, usually for something he hadn’t done. He remembered the God-awful food, the vetted letters only sent home after they had been read and approved by a Master and he remembered the solitude. 

The forced religion even when he had known from a very early age that he didn’t believe. School had only cemented his view that God didn’t exist, couldn’t exist if he approved of Richard being in a place like this. The hours spent in the school chapel, every morning, every evening had only solidified his belief in nothing. With a shudder his thoughts shifted to the cold floor in front of the fire where he had been made to sleep by matron as punishment after the other boys had made it seem as if he had wet the bed. As a joke. Always as a joke. Another joke he had been the butt of.

She nodded and the silence descended again. She wanted to ask about where his stupid matron was when the boys were holding his head in a toilet but didn’t. Instead she said. “I know about the …flushing.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the whole name.

And then there was that. He had tried to forget that. The smell. The rank stench, not of human waste but of bleach. The water flooding his senses, rolling over his ears, his eyes. The burning. The vague notion that he needed to keep his mouth shut then failing miserably as he received a blow to his ribs. He could feel the bile forcing its way up his throat again almost in commemoration to the first time it had happened and he commanded his brain to forget. 

He nodded then after a moment shrugged. So much to say. So much to keep. Perhaps when he was less hungover he would tell her. Perhaps not. 

“We don’t have to talk, but I think it’s important that you know I know.” A wan smile again. Sighing she said, “did you really think that my feminax would help your headache?”

He groaned. No wonder the box had been bright pink. He had put it down to some strange form of Caribbean pharmaceutical joke. She smiled, “don’t worry, it will still work.”

She re-filled his glass, placing it next to him and joined him on the floor. It was cold and uncomfortable. Her fingers laced through his in solidarity as she wondered how long they would be there for. She leant her head on to his arm and waited for his brain to shift back in to gear. 

He squeezed her hand gently, motioning to the basin with his head. “You ever used one?” 

There was a guilty silence as she remembered how she’d tried to hide the pregnancy tests by throwing them back in the cupboard Richard had unearthed them from. 

Her silence hung heavy for a moment. “Once.”

“For us.” It was a statement of understanding.

She nodded. “At the beginning.” He snuck a look at her, apparently unperturbed, patiently waiting for her to continue. “I was a couple of days late...”

He gave a small grimace of understanding. “You never told me.”

She shrugged. “We weren’t talking. And it was negative, so…” he nodded an acceptance at her reason for not telling him, “it wasn’t going to be anything else anyway, it’s not like we weren’t careful.” He smiled in understanding as she turned to look at him: a man still struggling to control his breathing and the shaking of his hands, his hangover like his memories, ever threatening. But despite all that she saw his pupils dilate in imagination as he gazed shifted slightly to the right and he stared at nothing.


End file.
